


The Musketeers - Alpha One

by guppy_mckay



Series: The Musketeers - Alpha One Series [1]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Medical Procedures, Medical Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-26
Updated: 2017-07-24
Packaged: 2018-11-19 06:12:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 33,837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11307360
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/guppy_mckay/pseuds/guppy_mckay
Summary: When an unexpected situation threatens the life of one of his team, Aramis is faced with a choice - overcome his bete noire or watch his "brother" die. MODERN AU Hurt/Aramis Hurt/d'Artagnan





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Dipping my toes into the modern Musketeers realm so, obviously, the story will be AU. Although I've brought these much loved characters several hundreds years forward from where Alexandre Dumas intended, I hope you will still feel the camaraderie, brotherhood, duty and courage that Dumas instilled in them. The story was originally written several years ago for another fandom but with some rewrites here and tweaking there, I'm hoping it will be an entertaining story in The Musketeer realm. It is unbeta'd and all mistakes are mine. Apologies to any French readers and those of you who are sticklers for linguistic and geographical accuracy - I did my best but hope you can overlook any inaccuracies in favour of the storyline. I hope you enjoy it.

**DISCLAIMER:- I do not own The Musketeers or its characters and no copyright infringement is intended.**

 

**Preface**

A large nondescript warehouse on the outer fringe of the 3rd Arrondissement housed the headquarters of the Military and Strategic Command Action Team.

The increased use of violence, coercion techniques and sophisticated weaponry - spearheaded by terrorist movements - had often found the criminal elements better organized and equipped than those whose job it was to prevent crime.

Inquiries into past incidents of hijacking, bomb threats, hostages, kidnappings and snipers had found the law enforcement agencies and the military lacking cohesion. When the police called in specialized services or the military, frequent demarcations and divisions of responsibility resulted in confusion and dangerous delays…and that's why MASCAT was formed.

Headed by Légion d'honneur recipient, Captain Jean-Amand Treville, MASCAT is not police, nor is it military – it is the best of both. Its purview is to take command in extreme situations and to use any methods necessary to restore peace. If that requires flirting with the fine line between lawful and unlawful, then so be it.

Every applicant had been subjected to grueling physical and exhausting mental evaluations that had weeded out the weaker candidates. Only those who possessed the particular skills and aptitudes Treville wanted in his organization, survived the merciless dissection. They now formed eight four-man teams – with a two-year waiting list of prospective candidates eager to join France's premier law enforcement agency.

Somewhere along the way, Treville's team of elite ex-military or former law enforcement specialists was tagged MASCATeers, which, in turn, became Musketeers…a name they wear with pride.

**Chapter 1**

Julien Moreau was the cute, albeit precocious, son of Paris millionaire-stock broker, Jacques Moreau. Blonde and blue-eyed the seven-year-old boy had been on his way home from school when three masked-men forced his minder's car from the road, killing the driver and bodyguard before subduing the child with chloroform and abducting him.

As a prominent Paris businessman and philanthropist, Jacques Moreau had met Captain Treville at many charity fund-raisers. When hearing of the kidnapping of his beloved son, Moreau's first call was to MASCAT. Treville assigned the case to his premier team, knowing that Alpha One would leave no stone unturned in their quest to find the boy and return him safely to his father.

Although the kidnappers surprise attack had obviously caught Moreau's protection team off-guard, there was more than enough evidence to suggest that this was the act of a desperate group of amateurs rather than the work of professional criminals. Half a finger print found on the car and a murky CCTV footage of unemployed laborer, Rodolphe Durand gave the team their first solid lead.

Durand and his associates had been linked to a cartel funding various terrorist organizations in the Middle East. With law enforcement agencies closing in, the daring, daylight kidnapping had been seen as a last ditch effort to extract fast cash before leaving the country to join the fight against Allied Forces.

MASCAT's Alpha One team had been present at Moreau's lavish château when the demand for a ten-million euro ransom had been received. Working with the distraught father, they arranged to attend the drop-off, scheduled for 2PM, outside Moreau's lavish corporate offices.

With dark skies and buffeting winds heralding the approach of a fierce storm, Jacques Moreau exited the lobby of his office building at 1:55PM, carrying a large satchel. Desperately worried about his son, the man's body was tense with anticipation as he walked purposefully to the designated meeting spot by the large fountain.

Alpha One had spread out around the large concourse, keeping their distance and moving among the lunchtime crowd while keeping a sharp lookout for anyone looking to engage Moreau.

Athos' earwig buzzed with a familiar baritone of his teammate.

"Dark blue sweater, by the coffee stand. Can't see 'is face from 'ere but he's been checking 'is watch and looks a bit twitchy," Porthos said.

The team leader cast his eyes in that direction just as young woman appeared and wrapped the man in an embrace before walking away arm in arm.

"Disregard my previous," Porthos stated. "That aint him."

Another anxious thirty minutes passed and Moreau was nervously transferring his weight from foot to foot.

"Heads up," d'Artagnan voice sounded through their earwigs. "My twelve o'clock. Dark hair, olive bomber jacket and blue runners. Could be Durand."

"Aramis?" Athos said looking across at the marksman's position. "Do you have eyes on him?"

"Roger that," the marksman confirmed casually. "Person of interest is Durand, repeat, I have eyes on Rodolphe Durand."

"Hold your positions," Athos told them. "Wait for him to make his move. Any sign of anyone with him?"

"Negative," d'Artagnan responded. "He hasn't used his phone or communicated with anyone since he arrived. Wait…he's on the move, heading toward Moreau."

The Alpha One team leader's lips twitched as he watched the suspect walk toward Moreau, looking around agitatedly as the two men spoke briefly. Snatching the satchel from Moreau, Durand turned on his heel and began to quickly walk away.

"Take him," Athos told his team.

The four agents left their positions on the perimeter of the concourse; approaching the man from all sides. A sprint through La Défense, Paris' financial hub, was definitely not on d'Artagnan's wish list but when Durand spotted the team closing in, he took off like a startled rabbit.

"Why do they always run?" d'Artagnan groaned into his comlink as he and Aramis sprinted after their quarry while Athos and Porthos returned to their car in an attempt to intercept the chase.

Durand was deceptively fast and easily outdistanced the younger men over the first twenty metres. In d'Artagnan's peripheral, he caught a glimpse of Aramis, changing direction sharply to try to get ahead of their fleet-footed suspect.

As the chase continued d'Artagnan started to make up ground, adjusting his gait as a sharp stitch in his side reminded him of the hazards of an impromptu sprint so soon after lunch.

They had sprinted for two city blocks, before a flying tackle by Aramis brought Durand to the ground and, in a tangle of arms and legs, they rolled for several metres before finally coming to a stop. With the muzzle of Aramis' Glock pressing between his ribs, Durand made no further attempt to resist arrest and the marksman quickly cuffed his hands behind his back and hauled him to his feet.

He turned in d'Artagnan's direction as the younger man arrived.

"What kept you?" he grinned.

Rolling his eyes, d'Artagnan leaned forward, placing his hands on his knees as he pulled in some deep breaths and waited for the rest of the team to arrive.

Athos brought the SUV to a halt with the usual screech of tires and acrid smell of burning of rubber. Porthos climbed from the passenger side and joined the younger men of the sidewalk.

"Gentlemen," Aramis said with a slight bow of his head. "I do hope your comfortable ride wasn't too exhausting."

"What's the point of 'aving youngsters on the team if you 'ave to do the chasin' yourself, eh?" Porthos chuckled as he took custody of the suspect and deposited him in the back seat of the vehicle.

"Think of it as working smarter, not harder," Athos agreed.

Aramis gave them a wan smile before walking back to his younger team mate. His eyes narrowed in concern as he placed his hand on the Gascon's shoulder.

"D'Artagnan, are you ill?"

D'Artagnan grimaced a little as he straightened to his full height, still breathing heavily.

"Just a stitch," he replied with a shrug. "Guess I shouldn't have had that second cheeseburger."

Aramis shook his head in admonishment.

"I keep telling you, d'Artagnan, eat healthy, be healthy."

The younger man's jaw dropped.

"If memory serves, you ate four!" he protested.

Tapping one hand against his stomach, Aramis wrapped his other arm around d'Artagnan's shoulders and steered him toward the car.

"What can I tell you? The Lord blessed me with good looks and a fast metabolism," he quipped.

**-o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o-**

Back at MASCAT headquarters, or 'The Garrison' as it had affectionately become known, Aramis sat in Observation Room Two, watching from behind the one-way glass as Porthos and Athos staged a master-class in interrogation techniques. Well and truly over his head, Durand confessed to his part in the kidnapping and was more than ready to flip on his associates in return for a more lenient sentence and witness protection.

"Pay up," Aramis said holding his hand out to the younger man as d'Artagnan returned with the coffee.

"Already?" d'Artagnan exclaimed staring open-mouthed into the interrogation room where his senior teammates were finishing up.

"Fifteen minutes," Aramis advised checking his watch. "I believe that may be a new record."

Rolling his eyes, d'Artagnan reached into his back pocket and withdrew a crumpled ten euro note.

"You, too," Aramis told the sound technician who reluctantly parted with two fives.

"Nice doing business with you," he grinned, grabbing d'Artagnan by the sleeve and rushing to catch up with Athos and Porthos as they headed into the captain's office.

**-0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o00o0o0o-**

"What do we know?" Captain Treville asked succinctly as the four agents gathered in his office.

"It is as we suspected," Athos began. "An ill-conceived plan hastily carried out by desperate men."

"In my experience, that does not make them any less dangerous," Treville told him.

"Nor in mine," Athos acknowledged. "Durand's two associates are holding the boy in a small farmhouse near Besslette. Durand was to collect the ransom and go to ground for two days to allow the heat to abate before making his way back to the farmhouse. If he didn't return by noon on Friday, the boy was to be "disposed of" and his associates would leave the country."

"Wait…disposed of? They'd kill the boy?" d'Artagnan paled. "He's just a little kid!"

"He is a means to an end," Athos said flatly; burying his fury. "Whether or not the ransom is made, the boy will have served his usefulness."

D'Artagnan stood to his full height, tension and anger emanating from him in waves. He clamped his jaw tightly shut and signaled his understanding with a curt nod of his head.

Despite his father's violent murder and his two year assignment with the Police Nationale's Cyber Crimes Unit, the young Gascon still found it difficult to accept that there were people in the world who would murder without provocation. Treville was regretful that d'Artagnan's assignment with MASCAT's Alpha One team, would destroy what was left of the young man's innocence.

"How could these associates be sure that Durand wouldn't take the cash and do a runner?" Aramis asked.

Porthos snorted.

"Believe me, if that 'appened, the cartel these guys are mixed up with would go to the ends of the earth to find him. Durand's stupid but even he's not that stupid."

"What do we know about these associates?" the captain asked.

"From what we can tell, they're your run of the mill thugs for hire," Porthos said. "Both 'ave priors and did time for aggravated assault and assault wiv' intent."

"And what of their ties to terrorism?" Treville asked.

"Tenuous at best," Athos said. "It would appear their motivation is derived from the lure of the almighty dollars rather than any particular religious or political fervor."

Sheet lightning lit up the sky and thunder rattled against the large window as the fierce storm that had been ravaging parts of France, made its presence felt in the nation's capital.

"Captain," Athos said. "Alpha One requests permission to go to Besslette to retrieve the boy."

"Granted," the Captain nodded. "But you'll have to get there by road. The president has ordered a ground stop of all military and civilian aircraft due to the extreme weather."

"That's a ninety-minute trip by road," Porthos added. "We better get moving."

"Do whatever you have to but bring that boy home," Treville told them.

Nodding their understanding, the team quickly left Treville's office, heading down the corridor to the large office they'd claimed as their own. The large room housed four desks, several filing cabinets, a whiteboard, sofa and a large equipment safe in the back corner.

Opening the safe, Porthos removed four Kevlar vests, thermal imaging equipment and satellite communication devices – testing each one to ensure they were in working order.

Aramis removed his beloved PSG sniper rifle and stashed the spare ammo clips into his backpack. Reaching back into the safe, he grabbed his Unit One kit and ran his eyes over the contents in a quick inventory. He was fastidious in ensuring he kept the medical kit fully stocked.

After the massacre at Savoy, Aramis had still been recovering and restricted to desk duties, when he had begged Treville to allow him to enroll an intensive 16 week EMT course. Although the course was far more comprehensive than the agency's standard first aid course, Aramis committed fully and achieved outstanding results.

He enhanced this training with a number of extension courses each year – some on his own time and at his own expense - and could often be found in deep discussion with the agency physician, Doctor Lemay, keeping abreast of any changes or advancements to treatments, medications, and equipment. The health and welfare of his brothers had become an obsession but it had also proven somewhat cathartic.

At the far end of the office, Athos stood watching over d'Artagnan's shoulder as the younger man keyed the address of the farmhouse into his laptop and switched to a satellite view to judge the terrain. The farmhouse was located five kilometres west of Besslette, on the other side of the Yonne River. It was remote enough to ensure the kidnappers privacy, yet close enough for them to drive to town for provisions, if needed.

The overhead lights flickered ominously as a jagged bolt of lightning pierced the angry black clouds and a deafening clap of thunder replied. Although it was only four in the afternoon, the storm darkened sky made it appear much later.

Constance Bonacieux walked into the Alpha One office balancing a large pile of files.

"I beg of you, Madame," Athos said. "Tell me those are not for me?"

"Believe me, Athos, I would like nothing more," she smiled. "But the captain wants your thoughts on these assignments before the end of the week. I'll just leave them on your desk."

Turning back to the team leader she handed him a set of keys.

"Serge asked me to give you these," she said. "He's filled the tank of your SUV and parked it out front."

Constance was a strong young woman with a no-nonsense attitude. As the only female currently working in the Garrison, she had to be. She'd been employed as Treville's personal assistant just before the Savoy massacre – a training assignment that had resulted in the brutal and senseless murder of twenty young Musketeers as they slept.

The aftermath of that attack had brought the agency to its knees as the Minister for the Interior and long-time adversary of MASCAT, Armand Richelieu, called for the agency to be disbanded. But the president, Louis Bourbon, had been so appalled by the cowardly attack, he immediately provided the resources needed to rebuild his Musketeers.

There had been burials to attend; new recruits to be found; training; paperwork and, most importantly, the physical and mental well-being of the only Musketeer to return from Savoy – Aramis.

Constance's life had never been as hectic or as challenging and although the days were long and the work demanding, she loved her job. Trapped in a loveless marriage, her husband blamed her job for their troubles and demanded she give it up. He foolishly gave her an ultimatum – their marriage or her job - she handed him the divorce papers two days later.

Looking at the map on d'Artagnan's laptop she chewed her lip worriedly.

"If that's where you're headed you best be going," she said. "There's already reports of wide spread storm damage in that area and the Yonne's about ready to break its banks."

"You heard the lady," Athos addressed his team. "Move out."

They moved passed her in single file; Athos nodding his thanks with the hint of a rare smile, while both Porthos and Aramis both planted a kiss on her cheeks. She waited as d'Artagnan shut down his computer and stood, hunching forward as his stomach cramped painfully.

"Are you alright?" she asked worriedly, rushing to his side.

"I'm fine," he replied, straightening when the pain disappeared as quickly as it arrived. "Must have pulled a muscle earlier…it's nothing."

"You look a little pale. Should I call Athos-"

"No!" d'Artagnan said with more volume than he'd intended. He gave her a shy smile as an apology. "I'm fine, really."

She watched him curiously for a moment before placing both hands on her hips.

"I'm not buying it for a second," she told him. "Something else is bothering you."

"It's nothing, really…just…well…" he huffed in frustration at his inability to articulate. "Look at them! They're Alpha One! Sometimes I just don't know…"

"Whether you belong?" Constance guessed, her eyes softening as the young man nodded. "D'Artagnan, how long have you been assigned to Alpha One?"

"Almost three months," he replied softly.

'Nearing the end of his probationary period,' Constance thought, understanding the reason for the young man's sudden self-doubts. She placed her hands on his shoulders and gave them a gentle squeeze.

"Do you really think you'd still be on their team if they didn't want you there?"

D'Artagnan lips twitched in a small smile.

"I suppose you're right," he said softly.

"When it comes to that lot, I'm seldom wrong," she laughed. "Well, go on with you! Your team's waiting!"

Just like Porthos and Aramis, he leaned in and planted a kiss on Constance's cheek before slinging his backpack over his shoulder and hurrying for the stairs. She watched him go, raised her hand to her cheek and grinned.

"Who says this job doesn't have its perks?"

**-o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o-**

Athos steered the vehicle out of the city towards the A6 exit as the others settled in for the ninety-minute journey. From his position in the back seat, d'Artagnan rolled the tension from his shoulders and took several deep breaths to calm his nerves. In his three months with the Alpha One team he had constantly been amazed by the calmness that descended over each of these larger-than-life characters before they launched themselves into the most perilous of situations.

Athos, appeared to be concentrating on driving in the hazardous conditions but d'Artagnan had no doubt that the team leader was already strategizing how to neutralize the kidnappers without risking harm to the hostage or his team.

A former Army lieutenant in Brigade des Forces Spéciales Terre, Athos reputedly had one of the best young military minds in the Armed Forces. His personal demons and penchant for wine won him no friends with the Army hierarchy but Treville recognized tactical brilliance when he saw it. Several long weeks of negotiation and persuasion saw Athos recruited into Treville's Musketeers. It hadn't taken long for d'Artagnan to discover that the phlegmatic team leader was intensely protective of the men under his command.

Porthos dozed in the passenger seat; snorting awake each time the car hit a pot hole in the road or braked suddenly. He had been recruited from the Army Troupes de Marines where he had earned the rank of Sergent-Chef. The big man had seen action in Africa and was a recipient of the Médaille Militaire formeritorious service and acts of bravery in action against an enemy force – it gave d'Artagnan no small amount of confidence knowing he had Porthos watching his back.

Flicking his gaze to his left, d'Artagnan grinned as Aramis nodded his head in time to the music currently playing on his iPhone. With his eyes closed, the fingers of his right hand tapped absently against his thigh. In his other hand, the marksman fingered a set of worn wooden rosary beads.

Having joined MASCAT soon after its formation, Aramis was one of the longest serving Musketeers. With a background in both the Police Nationale and the Group d'intervention de la Gendarmerie Nationale, (GIGN) he was highly accomplished in undercover work and counter-terrorism and - be it handguns or assault rifles - d'Artagnan had never seen a better marksman.

Of his three team mates, d'Artagnan considered Aramis the most paradoxical. He had stared in disbelief the first time he'd seen Aramis neutralize a dangerous assailant with a kill shot to the head, only to kneel beside the body and pray for the man's immortal soul. Quick with a grin and possessed of a healthy ego and more than his share of irreverence, it would be easy to underestimate him. But d'Artagnan knew that anyone who underestimated Aramis, did so at their own peril.

The young man felt his stomach roil uncomfortably and rubbed his tender abdomen, desperately hoping his nerves would not betray him. For the first time since his father's murder, the young man genuinely felt a part of something. These three men, with their extraordinary skills, had welcomed him into their brotherhood. There was so much he could learn from them and he was determined to make them proud.

**-o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o-**

It was dark by the time they drove through the small village of Besslette and onto the private access road to the farmhouse. The inferior quality of the road and the buffeting winds forced Athos to slow the vehicle. Torrential rain had gouged large trenches in the unsealed road and even the SUV struggled in the muddy conditions.

"You sure there isn't a better way in?" Porthos asked, with a white-knuckled grip on the dashboard.

"This is the only road in or out," d'Artagnan replied, rechecking their position on his laptop.

Rounding a sharp bend, the team held their collective breath as they crossed an antiquated wooden bridge standing valiantly against the surging river below.

"The farmhouse should be 1200 metres around the next bend," the young man added as Athos shut off the lights and pulled to the side of the road.

"We'll go the rest of the way on foot," Athos told them, pulling the SUV to the side of the road. "Gear up; vests and night goggles."

With Aramis taking point, the team double-timed it to the copse of trees directly in front of the farmhouse. The crudely built dwelling looked more like a shanty and was built in the middle of a clearing with a ramshackle lean-to currently providing shelter for a small generator and a late model Jeep.

The surrounding trees were approximately fifty metres from the cabin on all four sides and the large picture windows at the front and both sides made a covert approach difficult.

"Aramis, check the back. I want to know what we're dealing with," Athos said.

"Roger that," the marksman replied as he set-off on silent feet, keeping to the tree line.

Athos, Porthos and d'Artagnan hunkered down in the undergrowth, powering up the thermal imaging equipment and watching as d'Artagnan directed the device to the front portion of the farmhouse. In the front room, two ghostly, illuminated figures appeared on the screen, one sitting and the other pacing from one side of the room to the other.

"Two targets confirmed in the front room of the house," d'Artagnan said

"They look a bit jittery," Porthos stated, watching the monitor over d'Artagnan's shoulder. "That could make 'em unpredictable. You watch your six, yeah?"

D'Artagnan nodded his assent.

"See if you can find the boy," Athos told d'Artagnan as the younger man made the necessary adjustments.

"There," the Gascon said. "In the back room."

The three men felt the relief rush through them. Though the smaller illuminated figure was not moving, detection by the thermal imager meant the boy was still warm and, therefore, still alive. The agents allowed themselves a collective sigh of relief but they wouldn't completely relax until job was done and Julien Moreau was safely in their care.

D'Artagnan grimaced when his stomach roiled again. He breathed slowly through his nose until the pain subsided, wondering if he had a touch of food poisoning. The young man prided himself on his healthy eating habits and he should have known better than to place his trust in the culinary skills of a sidewalk burger vendor. After several long moments, the marksman's voice sounded through their earwigs.

"Heads up, I'm coming in," Aramis said, alerting them of his return.

Mere seconds passed before the marksman rejoined them.

"Report," Athos instructed.

"One small centre window – barred - no rear door, no CCTV," Aramis told them, removing his ball cap and using his sleeve to wipe the rain from his face.

"Can you provide cover?" the team leader asked?

"Athos…please," Aramis replied with a hint of indignation.

"We have determined the boy's position in the back of the house," Athos told him. "We'll move in from the rear where there is less chance of us being seen. Porthos and I will split up and move forward on either side of the house."

"What about us?" d'Artagnan asked.

"D'Artagnan, you'll wait until Aramis is in position to cover you. Get to the rear window - move fast and stay low. Once you're in position, Aramis will join you. We'll wait for your signal and storm the front door. Your primary concern is the boy. Anyone goes near that room; you take them out."

"Understood," d'Artagnan replied solemnly.

"Move out," Athos said.

Staying within the tree line, the team moved to the rear of the building. Aramis opened his backpack and handed d'Artagnan a SWATscope.

"You'll need this," he said before casting a trained eye among the trees looking for a vantage spot.

"Porthos," he said pointing to a large oak tree, "if you'd be so kind?"

The larger man joined him, bending at the knees and lacing his fingers together. Aramis placed his foot into his friend's hands, springing upwards and reaching for a large branch, ten-feet from the ground.

"Time to lay off those beignets," Porthos groaned. "You're gettin' heavy."

"On the contrary, mon ami," Aramis replied effortlessly hauling himself onto the branch. "You are getting old."

"Gentlemen, if you're quite finished," Athos chided.

The howling winds buffeted the trees and forced the rain almost horizontal. Spreading his weight evenly between two sturdy branches, Aramis leaned his back against the trunk for support before positioning his PSG and deftly switching to night scope. From his position, he could see the rear and both sides of the building.

"In position," he said. "I'll have eyes on you until you reach the front of the building."

"Stand by," Athos replied, turning to d'Artagnan. "Remember, fast and low. Wait until the next flash of lightning recedes and move with the thunder."

D'Artagnan nodded again and Athos clapped him on the back encouragingly. Right on cue, the lightning flashed and as the booming thunder reached its crescendo, Athos ran for the left side of the house, Porthos the right and d'Artagnan sprinted for the window at the rear.

They were more than half way there when a sharp pain stabbed through the younger man's abdomen causing him to slip on the wet grass and almost lose his footing. He recovered his balance and continued on, pressing himself into the wall under the window with his chest heaving.

Aramis' concerned voice sounded through his earwig.

"d'Artagnan?"

"I'm fine," he whispered, giving the marksman the thumbs up signal.

Raising the SWATscope to the window above, he placed the cup to his eye and slowly manoeuvred the cylindrical periscope until he could see into the room through the small gap in the curtains.

"The boy?" Athos asked through the comlink.

"I can't see," d'Artagnan growled. "It's too dark and I…wait, I can see him. I have a positive ID on the boy. He's alone…his feet and hands are bound but I can't tell if he's hurt or asleep."

"Hold your position," Athos told him. "Aramis?"

"Clear," the marksman replied, as Athos and Porthos stealthily moved off, staying as close to the walls as they could. They crouched low under the side-windows before moving to the front of the building and holding their positions in the shadows.

Aramis secured his rifle and began his descent from his position. The storm was worsening with gale-force winds bending and twisting the groaning trees. The violent illumination of another bolt of lightning struck an unsuspecting oak off to his right and the marksman had to admit he was grateful to be climbing out of the tree and heading for terra firma.

"d'Artagnan," he said into his comlink, "I am inbound to your position."

Hanging from the branch and then silently dropping the last few feet to the ground, Aramis frowned at the lack of response until the sound of a sharp, pain-filled gasp filtered through his earwig. Spinning in d'Artagnan's direction, Aramis drew his pistol as the Gascon fell to his knees and began to retch.

"D'Artagnan!" Aramis whispered urgently as he burst from the tree line and ran at a crouch toward the younger man. "Athos, hold your position. Repeat, hold your position."

He was just five metres away from d'Artagnan's side when he saw the flash of a muzzle from the window and his left thigh erupted in agony. He hit the ground hard, expelling the air from his lungs as his gun fell beyond his desperately grasping fingers. His vision blurred in and out and he vaguely recognized the sound of his partners' voices as more gunshots and yelling sounded through his earwig. Unarmed and barely conscious, he looked at the window and watched helplessly as an unknown man levelled his weapon for the kill shot.

**o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o**

TBC


	2. Chapter Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N This chapter and subsequent chapters contain medical jargon and procedures. I have no medical knowledge or experience (other than that gained as an all-too-frequent patient). I have tried to be as accurate as possible and hope that any inaccuracies can be overlooked in favour of the story line.
> 
> Thank you for the very kind reviews and words of encouragement. I hope you enjoy this chapter. GMcK

Athos and Porthos had made their way stealthily to the front of the cabin and positioned themselves in the dark recesses either side of the door. There they waited for confirmation that Aramis and d'Artagnan were in position at the rear of the building.

They exchanged a concerned look when Aramis hastily whispered for them to hold their position. As Athos moved his hand toward his comlink to question the delay, a gunshot rent the air.

Suppressing their concern for their younger counterparts, the senior agents were immediately spurred into action. With a familiarity born from years of working side by side, Porthos leaned back and delivered a mighty kick to the front door. The door frame surrendered in a shower of splintered wood as the door swung open and Athos entered in a low crouch. Scanning the room with trained precision, the lead agent spotted a man running for the back room.

"Federal agents! Drop your weapon and put your hands in the air!"

The man immediately turned, bringing his pistol to bear and squeezing off a round that narrowly missed the lead agent's head. Two quick retaliatory shots from Athos' Glock, struck the man in the chest and he collapsed to the floor in a lifeless heap.

"Target one is down," Athos reported quietly through his comlink. His muscles tensed when a second shot was heard from outside. "Aramis, d'Artagnan – status report," he ordered. "Aramis!"

The older man's voice was calm and unhurried and coloured with worry perceptible only to those who knew him well. He glanced at Porthos, seeing his own concern reflected in the larger man's dark eyes.

"Go," he told him. "I've got this."

As Porthos charged out the door to lend support to their younger teammate, Athos carefully approached the door leading to the rear bedroom. He waited outside for a moment, hearing nothing from the small room. Cautiously, the team leader leaned back and kicked the door open. Again, he brought his Glock to bear - his senses heightened to detect any threat or movement - but there was nothing but stillness.

The stench of stale air and chloroform was nearly overwhelming and, in the dim light of the small room, Athos saw the lifeless body of the remaining gunman slumped by the window with a neat bullet hole puncturing his temple. The wall behind him was painted with the remnants of the man's grey matter.

"Target two is down," he said, suppressing his worry when there was no acknowledgement from his teammates.

Stepping quickly to the young boy's side, Athos checked for vitals and was relieved to find a strong pulse. He removed his knife from the sheath on his belt and cut the ropes binding the child's hands and feet. Not wanting Julien to wake to the disturbing scene around him, Athos hoisted the boy into his arms and carried him to the larger bedroom on the other side of the cabin.

**-o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o-**

Adrenalin and pain surged through Aramis' body as he lay bleeding in the mud, struggling to remain conscious. He was vaguely aware of the cacophony of noise through his earwig that told him that Athos and Porthos had charged the front of the cabin. He clenched his jaw as torn and traumatized thigh muscles trembled, sending spasms of agony up and down his leg.

Taking a deep breath, he calmed himself. If he were to die here, he determined that he would do so with courage. With every ounce of remaining energy, he dragged himself to a sitting position and turned defiant brown eyes to meet those of the gunman.

For an instant, time stood still before moving forward in tiny, frame by frame increments. He watched as the man's lips formed a feral smile and his finger tightened around the trigger.

A gunshot sounded and, despite his resolve, Aramis flinched violently. When death did not come, his mind was flooded with confusion and he looked toward the gunman. He stared in disbelief at the blood streaming from a bullet hole in the man's right temple. For a moment, unseeing eyes stared back at him in surprize before the weapon fell from the man's lifeless fingers.

Relief overwhelmed him, robbing him of his strength, and the marksman collapsed onto his back. The appeal and seduction of unconsciousness beckoned and only a sharp gasp from his left forced him to shun its advances.

Turning his head to his left, he blinked away the darkness impeding his vision and his gaze found d'Artagnan. Crouched on one knee, the Gascon's pistol was held in a trembling two-handed grip and still pointing toward the dead gunman. Aramis watched helplessly as his younger teammate lunged forward onto his hands and knees and retched convulsively.

"D'Artagnan!" Aramis rasped through tightly clenched teeth. "D'Artagnan!"

The desperation in his partner's voice, captured the young man's attention and he turned anguished brown eyes toward the injured marksman.

"I…I killed him," d'Artagnan uttered, barely audible over the sound of the thunder and pelting rain. "I…I killed him."

Aramis was all too aware that this was the Gascon's first kill and he wanted nothing more than to offer the younger man his steadfast support. But his vision wavered again and he could feel his consciousness slipping away.

"I could...I could use a bit of help here," Aramis gasped as he attempted to breathe through the pain.

The younger man shook himself free of his dark thoughts and his gaze fell on the rapidly growing blood stain on Aramis' jeans.

"Oh God," d'Artagnan uttered as he holstered his weapon, scrambled to the marksman's side.

Aramis' teeth began to chatter loudly as his body lost blood and heat. The world spun sickeningly around him and his eyes closed of their own volition as he leaned heavily against his younger teammate.

A flash of movement from the right caught d'Artagnan's attention and he reached for his weapon.

"Easy," Porthos said as he stepped from the darkness. Moving quickly to his teammates' side he glanced worriedly from Aramis to the Gascon.

"What 'appened?"

"Aramis was shot," d'Artagnan told him; barely above a whisper.

"Yeah, I kinda guessed that bit," Porthos replied.

As the marksman's head lolled forward, Porthos placed his hand under Aramis' chin and tapped his fingers against the injured man's cheek.

"Hey, none of that," he told him. "You stay with me, yeah?"

Aramis nodded his head but the darkness was a determined seductress and she continued her efforts to draw him under.

"How bad?" Aramis rasped.

Porthos gently lifted the leg to inspect the wound; Aramis hissed as the movement sent another wave of searing agony through his body.

"Bad enough for you to swoon like a hot-house lily," Porthos grinned, earning himself an irritated, if unfocussed, glare. "Looks like a through and through and its missed the artery. You really are a lucky bastard."

Aramis huffed a laugh.

"If that was…was true, I would have avoided getting shot, would I not?"

"Fair point," Porthos chuckled. "Let's get you inside and outta this storm."

Porthos spared a moment to look at d'Artagnan, not liking the pallor of his skin or the way his arms were crossed over his chest.

"You hurt?" he asked the probationary agent.

"No," d'Artagnan replied dropping his gaze. "No, I'm fine."

The larger man looked skeptical but as there were no visible injuries, he took the Gascon at his word and nodded in Aramis' direction.

"Give me a hand with 'im," he said.

Porthos and d'Artagnan crouched either side of their wounded marksman, each taking an arm when Aramis shrugged free of their hold.

"Wait…my unit one kit," he said, pointing to his medical bag lying several metres away.

D'Artagnan fetched the muddied bag, slinging over his shoulder by the straps before resuming his position and attempting the lift the injured man again.

"Not y-yet," Aramis stammered, pointing a trembling hand to his right. "My s-sidearm and r-rifle."

Exasperated, Porthos stood to his full height and pointed toward the window where the dead gunman was still visible.

"You sure you don't wanna bring 'im along, too?" he said before tucking Aramis' sidearm into his waistband and handing the rifle to d'Artagnan.

On a quick count of three, they lifted their injured marksman over Porthos' broad shoulders. A strangled cry of pain ripped from Aramis' throat as the larger man made his way carefully along the wet, mossy path.

The lightning and thunder continued their spectacular heavenly argument while gale force winds and horizontal rain stung their faces. Porthos paused at the side of the cabin and adjusted his grip on Aramis as he spoke into his comlink.

"Athos, sitrep?"

"The cabin is secure," came the even reply. "What's your status?"

"'Mis has been shot. We gotta get 'im inside."

"Roger that. Bring him in."

Porthos glanced at d'Artagnan again. The younger man was bending forward with his hands on his knees; wincing and swallowing convulsively.

"Oy…you sure you're alright?" Porthos asked.

"I…I'm fine," d'Artagnan replied, straightening. "Let's go."

**-o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o-**

As d'Artagnan led his teammates to the front porch, the door swung open and Athos beckoned them inside.

The cabin was open-plan and sparsely furnished. At one end, an over-stuffed couch and worn arm chair faced a large open fire; a large dining table was situated near the small but practical kitchen. Leading from the living room at the rear of the dwelling, two bedrooms were separated by a small bathroom.

"Put him on the couch," Athos instructed, taking the rifle and unit one kit from d'Artagnan.

As d'Artagnan and Porthos lowered the marksman onto the couch, the jostling of his injured leg incited the tortuous wrath of traumatized muscle and nerve endings. A guttural scream was torn from Aramis' throat and when the siren song of the darkness beckoned again, he willingly tumbled into her open arms.

Taking advantage of his unconscious state, they quickly stripped him of his Kevlar vest and boots, dried him off as best they could before draping a thick woolen blanket over him.

Athos tossed some dry towels onto the nearby armchair for the others to dry themselves and then, kneeling beside their insensate marksman, the lead agent carefully cut away Aramis' jeans and gently eased a clean towel under the injured leg. He glanced up at d'Artagnan.

"How did this happen?" he asked tersely.

"Aramis was changing position, from the tree to the rear of the cabin," the younger man began tentatively.

"You were supposed to be providing cover," Athos said with more than a hint of accusation.

"I was…that is…I …" the young man's anguish-filled eyes contrasted starkly against his pale skin. He took a deep breath, straightened his shoulders and met the team leader's piercing stare. "I'm sorry."

Athos glowered at the younger man before turning back to tend to Aramis' wound.

"Go sit with the boy," he told the Gascon without looking at him. "He shouldn't be alone when he wakes."

D'Artagnan's nodded sullenly, his gaze moving to the unconscious marksman.

"Will Aramis be-"

"Go!" Athos ordered.

D'Artagnan dropped his eyes; unable to hide his hurt. He turned quickly but hovered at the door to the rear bedroom, appearing reluctant to enter.

"Not that one," Athos called. "I moved Julien to the other room – he has suffered enough without waking to the bodies of his kidnappers."

D'Artagnan nodded and changed direction, disappearing into the master bedroom and closing the door behind him. Porthos watched him go before turning to the team leader.

"You coulda given 'im a chance to explain," the larger man said. "He's the best probie we've ever had."

"He'll have his chance," Athos replied, sorting through the medical kit. "In the meantime, you'll excuse me while I prevent Aramis from bleeding out."

Porthos nodded.

"What can I do?" he asked.

"Call Treville. Tell him we have the boy but need an emergency medivac and a coroner's team here ASAP. And pray the president's lifted the ground stop."

Right on queue the storm flexed its powerful muscles as thunder roared overhead and the lights flickered ominously.

"Medivac's not gonna be easy in this storm but I'll tell 'im," Porthos replied, as he walked to the far corner of the room to grab the satellite phone from his backpack.

**-o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o-**

Struggling, momentarily, to slip his fingers into a pair of nitrile gloves, Athos gingerly wiped away the blood so he could gauge the extent of Aramis' wounds. Although Aramis was the team's field medic, they each had emergency first aid training.

Scrutinizing the contents of the medical kit, he selected a roll of gauze. Celox gauze was coated with granules that absorbed water from the blood, causing it to coagulate to minimize bleeding. It wasn't ideal but it should hold the injured man until the medivac could be arranged.

He was about to begin cleaning the wound when Aramis moaned softly; his brow furrowing as he clawed his way back toward consciousness.

"Aramis?" Athos called quietly. "Aramis, open your eyes."

After a brief struggle, pain-filled, brown eyes opened partway and blinked languidly as the injured marksman tried to focus. He gasped as the pain of his injury made itself known.

"Lay quietly, I need to stop the bleeding."

Breathing deeply through the pain, Aramis turned his head at the sound of Porthos' voice. The larger man was standing by the window, speaking on the sat phone. Looking around the cabin, he became agitated when he noticed d'Artagnan was missing. He attempted to sit up, gritting his teeth and hissing at the pain the movement caused.

"Where's…where's d'Artagnan?"

Athos easily restrained the injured man with a hand to his chest, effectively pinning him to the couch.

"Lay still!" Athos said in a clipped tone. "D'Artagnan's fine. He's with the boy."

The team leader watched as Aramis closed his eyes and let the relief wash over him. Athos' finely tuned gut told him there was more to this story.

"Is there something I should know?" he asked, his eyes narrowing in suspicion.

A hint of something Athos couldn't quite put a name to, flashed across the injured man's face before Aramis met his gaze.

"D'Artagnan got his…his first kill," the medic replied.

"His first kill?" The team leader frowned in confusion before realization struck. "Bullet through the temple - the second kidnapper. I had assumed that shot was yours."

Aramis shook his head, then grimaced at the lightheadedness it caused.

"The…the shot was d'Artagnan's," he rasped.

Exhaustion and pain overwhelmed him and, closing his eyes, the younger man allowed his head to loll back against the cushions.

"At least that explains why the whelp seemed so outta sorts," Porthos said as he rejoined them. "First kill's always the 'ardest."

Athos felt a twinge of guilt but suspected he was missing an important piece of information. If d'Artagnan had been providing cover while Aramis moved position, how did their marksman get shot? With his supplies now ready, Athos stowed that thought for later and looked at the marksman's torn and bloodied thigh.

"I need to irrigate these wounds."

Aramis' eyes shot open and Athos cursed under his breath. He'd hoped the younger man had again passed out and would miss the pain of the saline solution washing into and over the open wounds.

"This will be unpleasant," Athos understated, reaching for a syrette of morphine. "You will need pain relief."

"No!" Aramis croaked. "No morphine…not yet."

"Don't be a fool," the team leader told him. "You need something for the pain."

Aramis gritted his teeth and manoeuvred himself to a sitting position.

"Whoa, whoa! Where the 'eck do you think you're goin'?" Porthos asked, placing a restraining hand on the younger man's shoulder.

"I need to…to check the boy. Need to monitor his breathing."

"Before or after you bleed out?" Porthos asked him sternly. "D'Artagnan's with Julien, 'e's fine."

Aramis shook his head vigorously and then regretted the action as his stomach roiled in protest.

"You don't…you don't understand," the medic stammered, the pain and dizziness causing his speech to falter. "Prolonged use of chloroform can…can suppress the respiratory system. Julien needs to be propped up to ease any congestion. I need to…oh…"

Aramis lost all colour from his face as the room spun nauseatingly.

"Porthos is right," Athos told him. "You need to lie still and allow me to tend these wounds. d'Artagnan is quite capable of watching the boy."

"I am the…the medic," Aramis insisted breathlessly. "Julien is my responsibility."

Athos shot an exasperated look over Aramis' head to Porthos. They had seen this before and accepted it for what it was…an ongoing legacy from the massacre of Savoy. Seriously wounded and without the necessary training and provisions, Aramis had watched helplessly while twenty Musketeer recruits died around him. Though his guilt was grossly misplaced, it fueled Aramis' obsession with the medical needs of his brothers and others in his charge - often at his own expense.

Porthos gave a resigned shrug and Athos nodded in reluctant agreement.

"First, you will lie still while I tend to your injuries," Athos told him. "Then, as soon as you've seen to the boy, you'll take the morphine even if I have to knock you down and sit on you to administer it. Are we clear?"

"You really need…need to work on your…your bedside manner," Aramis stammered.

"Are. We. Clear?" Athos repeated.

"Crystal," Aramis conceded, sagging back on the couch in relief and exhaustion.

Porthos placed one steadying hand on Aramis' chest and the other on the knee of his injured leg to hold him still.

"Ready?" he asked.

"Do it," Aramis replied.

As Athos poured a liberal amount of saline solution over the wounds, a wave of agony engulfed the marksman, stealing his breath and causing him to gasp loudly. He crushed his eyes closed, balling his hands into the lapel of Porthos' shirt as his world exploded in pain. Working quickly, Athos cleaned and packed the wounds with Celox gauze before bandaging Aramis' thigh and tucking the blanket around the exhausted man. Climbing to his feet, Athos signaled for Porthos to join him by the fireplace.

"We have to get him out of here," Athos said, carding his fingers through his hair. "What did Treville say?"

Porthos sighed audibly.

"Meteo France has categorized this whole area as red alert. There's been widespread flooding and wind speeds of up to 180km per hour," Porthos reported. "On advice from the Directorate of Civil Aviation, the president's ground stop order is in effect until the storm passes."

"Any idea when that will be?" Athos asked, his concerned eyes glancing at his injured marksman.

"At least five hours. The cap'n said local emergency services are overwhelmed but the nearest hospital's only twenty klicks away. If we're gonna get 'Mis to a hospital, we're gonna 'ave to transport 'im ourselves."

Athos nodded his understanding.

"There's a Jeep in the lean-to. The keys must be around here somewhere."

Recalling the poor state of the road, Porthos grimaced.

"That's gonna be a painful trip for Aramis," he said.

"We give him the morphine before we leave," Athos replied.

A loud crash from outside had senior agents reaching for their side arms. Cautiously, Porthos approached the window and looked outside.

"Stand down," he said as he re-holstered his Berretta. He remained looking out the window for a long moment. "You're not gonna believe this."

"And yet…the way our luck has been running…I'm sure I will," Athos replied dryly.

"Damn tree's fallen over the lean-to. No way we're getting the Jeep outta there now."

Athos joined the larger man at the window; his shoulders dropping when he saw the damage the tree had caused. Without further discussion, Porthos reached for his coat and then shrugged into the straps of his backpack.

"Where are you going?" Athos asked.

"To get our vehicle," he replied, pointing at Aramis with his chin. "If his condition goes south, I'd rather not have to carry 'im and the boy a klick to the car."

Athos nodded and Porthos opened the door, grasping it tightly as the force of the wind nearly tore it from his hand.

"Porthos," the lead agent called over the roaring sounds of the storm. "You've got thirty minutes before I come after you."

Porthos replied with a grin and a nod before stepping outside and closing the door firmly behind him.

**-o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o-**

Despite Athos' misgivings, he shouldered the medical bag before helping his injured marksman to his feet. Their progress was slow and labored with the younger man barely able to place any weight on his injured leg. Though the distance was short, they were force to stop twice; Athos providing steadying support until Aramis' world stopped spinning. By the time they'd reached the door to the master bedroom, the marksman was breathing heavily and trembling from the pain of exertion.

"This is insane," Athos groused. "You are in no condition for this."

"We had an…an agreement," Aramis said, wearing the stubborn expression the team leader had come to know too well. "I need to…to check on Julien."

Adjusting his grip on the younger man, Athos nudged the bedroom door open with his hip and they moved awkwardly into the room.

The child was laid out on the bed, where Athos had placed him earlier, wrapped in a warm blanket. He was pale and obviously still unconscious.

In a chair adjacent to the bed, d'Artagnan was leaning forward with his head in his hands. He startled when he realized his teammates had entered the room and he quickly moved the rancid smelling waste paper basket that had been positioned suspiciously between his feet.

Aramis' eyes narrowed in concern as he noted the younger man's unusually sallow complexion and a hazy memory returned unbidden of d'Artagnan being physically ill outside the cabin. However, before the marksman could raise the issue, the room tilted wildly and Aramis' knees buckled.

"Give me a hand," Athos grunted, taking most of the injured man's weight.

With a thinly disguised grimace, d'Artagnan moved quickly to the marksman's other side, guiding him to the chair he'd just vacated.

"I'm fine," Aramis muttered, shaking off the assistance and taking a few moments to get his breathing under control. He turned to look at the sleeping child. "Has he woken at all?"

"Just for a moment," d'Artagnan replied. "He was confused and frightened. I'm not sure he understood that he was safe before he passed out again."

Aramis nodded, not taking his eyes from the boy.

"How is his breathing?" the medic asked, wincing as he inadvertently moved his leg.

"Steady and there is no evidence of fever," d'Artagnan frowned, his gaze flicking from Aramis to Athos and noting the medic's concern. "What am I missing?"

"The use of chloroform over a long period can harm one's respiratory system," Athos explained. "Aramis is concerned that Julien's lungs may be compromised."

Aramis rifled through his medical kit and removed his stethoscope. He took several more deep breaths before gripping the arms of the chair and attempting to stand on his uninjured leg.

"Hey, what are you doing?" d'Artagnan asked, grasping the marksman's forearm to steady him.

"I need to…to check his breathing," Aramis gasped.

Rolling his eyes at Aramis' foolish determination, Athos placed his hand on the marksman's shoulder, guiding him back to the chair.

"Unless it is your intention to re-open your own wounds, you will remain seated," Athos insisted. Taking the stethoscope from the medic's hands, he looped it around his own neck. "I will check on the boy," he said. "Tell me what I'm listening for?"

"Any crackling or sounds of congestion," Aramis replied. "Check both sides of his chest – front and…and back.

Athos nodded succinctly did as he was instructed.

"His heartbeat is strong and regular," he said, moving the stethoscope to the boy's lungs before lifting him slightly to listen to his back. "No sounds of congestion. His lungs are clear."

Aramis relaxed slightly but still looked concerned.

"Use those pillows and prop him up. It will help prevent congestion from developing," he said, "and wash any…any chloroform residue from his face – it can irritate the skin."

Aramis watched attentively as Athos and d'Artagnan gently tendered the sleeping boy. Only when he was satisfied that Julien was in no immediate danger of respiratory distress, did the medic allow himself to relax and close his eyes. Quick footsteps sounded to his left, followed soon after by Athos' concerned voice.

"D'Artagnan?"

Aramis looked up in time to see the ashen-faced Gascon striding quickly out of the bedroom. The bathroom door, closed loudly behind him but wasn't enough to mute the sounds of vomiting.

Athos' keen mind backtracked to events leading up to this point. His plan to breach the cabin and take out the kidnappers had been simple yet sound. It should have worked without injury to any of his team. With sudden clarity, the mystery surrounding Aramis' injury fell into place and the team leader turned angry green-eyes towards the marksman.

"D'Artagnan was ill," he stated, battling to retain his usual countenance. He nodded to Aramis' wounded leg. "He was supposed to be your cover but he was ill. He took his eyes off the cabin and that's when you were wounded."

"Athos…"

"You knew and yet you kept this from me!" Athos hissed. "The entire mission was compromised."

"Athos, I…"

"Aramis didn't know," d'Artagnan replied quietly from the hallway. "At least, not until it happened."

The mixture of anger, concern and disappointment in the team leader's eyes was almost d'Artagnan's undoing. He dropped his gaze to his feet, swaying slightly, and quickly wiping the sweat from his brow with his sleeve.

"Gentlemen, perhaps we can continue this…this discussion elsewhere?" Aramis suggested with a meaningful look toward the sleeping child.

Without further discussion, d'Artagnan and Athos assisted Aramis to his feet and back into the living room. The short journey to the arm chair and the pain it generated, rendered the marksman boneless with exhaustion and, despite his valiant effort, his eyes closed of their own volition.

Athos' anger momentarily outweighed his concern and he turned to his probationary agent who was sitting anxiously on the couch.

"Explain," he said, tersely.

The younger man took a moment to gather his thoughts.

"Athos, you have to believe me. I did not intentionally set out to conceal anything from you," the Gascon stated earnestly. "At first, I thought it nothing more than a stitch."

Athos' expression remained composed but his eyes blazed.

"Continue," he said.

"I first felt it when we chased down Durand – it was just a sharp twitch, like a muscle spasm. It wasn't until we were on our way here that I began to feel worse."

"And, yet, you chose to keep that information to yourself," Athos said sternly.

"By then I thought it was just an upset stomach," d'Artagnan explained. "Not for one moment did I think it would affect my performance or compromise the mission."

"And now?"

"Now, I think…I think it may be food poisoning," d'Artagnan replied.

Athos perched on the coffee table and looked the younger man in directly in the eyes.

"For Alpha One to function effectively, we must all be at the top of our game – physically and psychologically," the team leader told him. "When we are in the field, Aramis, Porthos and I need to know that you have our backs; that we can put our lives in your hands without doubt or hesitation. Today, you were our weak link and Aramis was nearly killed because you chose to conceal your illness."

The truth of Athos' words stung fiercely. The younger man felt the heat of shame colour his face and felt his stomach roil again as hot bile burned the back of his throat. Crossing his arms over his stomach, d'Artagnan winced as he hunched forward.

"Excuse me," he whispered, climbing to his feet and stumbling back to the bathroom where he purged the meagre remains of his stomach contents.

Athos sighed deeply and pinched the bridge of his nose. His glanced toward the arm chair and was only mildly surprised to see the marksman's glazed eyes looking back at him. Aramis groaned as he changed position: his leg throbbing painfully.

"We have a problem," he told the older man.

Athos titled his head and raised an eyebrow.

"If you are referring to the fact that we have a young child and two team members in need of medical care; the bodies of two kidnappers in the spare room; a storm raging outside and Porthos - God knows where - battling gale-force winds…then, yes, I agree with your assessment," he deadpanned.

"I'm speaking of d'Artagnan," Aramis said solemnly. "Clearly, he is not well."

"Food poisoning is unpleasant," the team leader stated. "But there is little we can do to ease his discomfort until we can get to a hospital."

"This may be much more serious," Aramis said. "D'Artagnan and I bought our lunch from the same street vendor…I have no such symptoms."

Athos noticed the medic's serious expression.

"If not food poisoning, then what?"

"Appendicitis," Aramis told him. "The symptoms fit."

Athos felt his heart skip a beat. Launching to his feet he strode purposefully to the front window, pulling back the drapes and peering into the darkness as he suppressed his consternation. Thunder cracked loudly overhead and the lightning created a strobe effect on the sky. The howling winds tore branches from trees and littered the area with falling debris as the rain buffeted the cabin from all sides. There was no sign of Porthos and the team leader cursed as he glanced at his watch.

"Porthos is overdue?" Aramis asked.

"He will be here directly," Athos replied with a confidence he didn't feel. "When he returns, we will leave immediately for the nearest hospital."

Several more moments passed; Aramis watched as Athos paced like a caged lion. The bathroom door opened and d'Artagnan leaned against the frame - his arms wrapped around his abdomen and his ashen face lined in pain.

"Athos," he rasped. "My…my stomach."

The team leader was at his side in an instant, wrapping an arm around the Gascon's slim waist as he led him to back to the living room. Stifling a groan, Aramis awkwardly levered himself from the armchair and carefully perched on the edge of the coffee table.

"Easy, d'Artagnan," he rasped, ignoring the pain surging through his thigh. "Let me…let me take a look at you."

Placing his hand on d'Artagnan's forehead, Aramis confirmed what he already knew – the younger man was burning up.

Athos handed the medic his unit one kit and Aramis removed the tympanic thermometer and slipped it into the Gascon's ear. Ignoring his own pain, he leaned forward to check the younger man's pulse. The quiet beep of the thermometer sounded and Aramis frowned when the digital reading showed 101.8.

"Tell me what you need," Athos said to his marksman. "Cold compresses? Fluids?"

"I need to examine his abdomen first," he said, fumbling the buttons of d'Artagnan's shirt. The medic then placed a gentle hand on the young man's shoulder. "This may be uncomfortable."

Probing the area just under the Gascon's ribs, he watched d'Artagnan's face carefully for signs of discomfort and pain. Although the younger man admitted to some tenderness, there was no sign of severe pain. Moving his hands lower toward d'Artagnan's right hip, Aramis carefully pinched a fold of skin and elevated it before allowing it to recoil back. D'Artagnan cried out in pain, immediately curling in on himself.

"I'm sorry, my friend," Aramis told him.

D'Artagnan looked at him with pain-filled eyes.

"This isn't…this isn't f-food poisoning, is it?" the Gascon asked.

"No," Aramis told him, his dark eyes flicking up to meet his team leader's concerned gaze.

"What do you think it is?" d'Artagnan asked. "Tell me!"

"Appendicitis," Aramis said flatly.

Though seemingly impossible, the younger man paled another shade.

"Do not be alarmed, mon ami," Aramis told him with a forced smile. "I am told the…the local hospital is having a sale today - two Musketeers for the price of one."

"Hospital?" the Gascon groaned.

Athos moved into the younger man's line of sight.

"And if appendicitis isn't unpleasant enough, you'll be forced to endure several days with a bored Aramis as a roommate," he quipped.

The medic placed his hand on the crown of the ailing man's head.

"Rest easy, d'Artagnan."

D'Artagnan squirmed uncomfortably; drawing his long legs up toward his chin.

"It hurts," he moaned.

"I know," Aramis replied, squeezing the younger man's forearm. "But you must hold on. "Porthos will return shortly and we'll be at the hospital before you know it. Rest now."

D'Artagnan closed his eyes and Aramis watched over the younger man until he was certain he'd slipped into a light sleep. Then, struggling back to the over-stuffed armchair, he gritted his teeth as he carefully propped his injured leg onto the coffee table. Athos' concerned voice sounded to his left.

"I'm told the phrase 'physician heal thyself" also applies to field medics?"

Aramis turned exhausted, pain-filled eyes toward the team leader and managed to raise an inquiring eyebrow.

"If memory serves," Athos continued, "you agreed to have a morphine injection as soon as you had checked the condition of young Julien."

"Athos, I cannot," Aramis replied. "Both d'Artagnan and Julien's conditions could deteriorate. I need to keep my wits sharp."

Athos wanted to argue the point. He wanted to shake the younger man until he understood that his own welfare was every bit as important as anyone else's. But, Aramis had a point – as the team's field medic, he was better trained and better equipped to deal with any medical emergencies that may present.

Athos gave a reluctant nod.

"Then you should rest," the team leader told him. "You will be of no service to them if you cannot remain conscious yourself. I will wake you should the situation warrant it."

To Athos' surprise, Aramis nodded his assent, his eyelids growing heavier before finally fluttering closed.

**-o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o-**

Sighing audibly, the team leader anxiously ran his fingers through his hair. Without disturbing the exhausted medic, he took the opportunity to look at the wound and was concerned to find two sizeable scarlet blotches where the blood had seeped through the bandages. He draped a nearby blanket over Aramis, willing Porthos to return soon with the SUV.

Moving to the bedroom, Athos checked on the boy. Julien moved restlessly in his sleep, giving the impression that he would soon awaken and his breathing continued to be regular. Athos hoped it wouldn't be too long before they could return the traumatized child to his father.

Finding a clean hand towel in the linen closet, the team leader filled a bowl with cool water and placed the towel in it. Wringing out the excess liquid, Athos folded the hand towel and placed it on d'Artagnan's sweaty forehead. The younger man moaned softly before relaxing again into a deeper sleep.

The sound of the SUV arriving at the front of the cabin was music to Athos' ears. Heavy footsteps pounded on the front porch before the front door flew open and Porthos quickly entered. His saturated clothes clung to his large frame while droplets of water trickled down his face and transformed the curls on his head to tight ringlets.

"We have a problem," Athos told him immediately.

Quickly summarizing the situation, the team leader told Porthos of d'Artagnan's diagnosis and their need to transport their younger teammates to the hospital as a matter of urgency.

The larger man cursed aloud, rubbing his jaw with his hand.

"Then we really got trouble," Porthos said gravely. "The river 'as washed out the bridge. There's no other way out."

**o0o0o0oo0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o**

TBC

Thank you for reading.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Absolutely overwhelmed by the level of interest and the kind words of encouragement I've received for this story. Humbled beyond words…thank you. G

Athos closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose.

"You're not serious," he said.

"Ya think I'd joke 'bout somethin' like that?" Porthos asked as he shrugged out of his wet jacket.

Athos guided the other man to the other side of the room so as not to disturb d'Artagnan and Aramis.

"You're quite sure the bridge is unpassable?" he asked quietly.

"Unpassable?" Porthos huffed a laugh that had nothing to do with humour. "Athos, it's gone! I double-timed it back to our SUV and was about to get in when I 'eard an almighty crash from over the hill. I climbed to the nearest high point so I could get a good look at the river and…the bridge is completely washed away."

Athos felt the tension in his shoulders tighten painfully.

"I'll call Treville and get an update on the storm. I'll request that he place a medivac on stand-by as soon as the storm abates."

Athos began to walk away but was stopped by the larger man's hand on his arm.

"That could be hours," Porthos asked, pointing at d'Artagnan with his chin. "How bad can this get?"

Athos' face retained its impassiveness but his eyes conveyed his concern.

"Appendicitis is a common affliction," Athos replied. "In a hospital environment, it requires relatively minor surgery."

"What about when stuck in the middle of nowhere and when the closest thing we got to a doc has two bullet 'oles in 'is leg?"

Athos paused before answering.

"Then it becomes a matter of life or death."

Porthos turned on his heel and began to put his jacket back on.

"Wait, where are you going?" the lead agent asked.

"Back to the river. We've got grapplin' gear in the trunk. I could find an area where the river narrows and-"

"And what?" Athos interrupted. "I've no doubt you could rig a rope bridge to the other side of the river and I'm quite certain that if anyone could make it across, it's you. But then what? Aramis and d'Artagnan would still be on this side."

Porthos' shoulders slumped and he sighed loudly.

"You're right," he said. "It was a stupid idea."

Athos squeezed the big man's shoulder.

"It was an idea based on courage and friendship…and I'd expect nothing less from you," he told him. "We'll get them home…it's what we do."

**-o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o-**

Athos retrieved the sat phone and dialed Treville's number. He was only mildly surprised to hear a female voice answer.

"Constance, it's Athos," he said.

"Athos, I was about to call you," Constance replied. "I've contacted St Clements - that's the hospital nearest to your location. It's a small concern and not really set-up to treat GSW's but they'll start Aramis on antibiotics and pain meds until the storm clears and he can be transferred. It's the best they can do under the circumstances."

"I'm afraid the situation has become dire," Athos told her. "I need to speak with the captain."

"Captain Treville was called to an emergency meeting with President Bourbon. He's likely to be a while yet," she replied before adding tentatively. "Athos…what's happened? Is it Aramis?"

Athos hesitated. There was no question that Constance had formed a sisterly relationship with all members of the Alpha One team but the lead agent suspected that the young secretary had developed more than a passing interest in their probationary agent. The news of the Gascon's condition was bound to shake her.

"It's d'Artagnan," he replied. "We believe he may be suffering from acute appendicitis."

The frightened gasp at the other end of the phone gave credence to his suspicion but, to her credit, Constance composed herself quickly.

"Appendicitis? Athos, are you sure? He thought it was just a strained a muscle!"

"Aramis is quite certain."

"I'll contact the hospital again and ask them to have a surgical team standing by."

"There's more," Athos stated flatly. "The bridge that provides the only land route in and out of our position has been washed out. We cannot reach the local hospital. We need Treville to arrange a medivac at the first opportunity."

A long pause followed and Athos imagined the concern in Constance's dark eyes.

"I understand," she said.

"You might also have Doctor Lemay standing by to provide medical guidance."

"Consider it done," Constance told him. "What about the boy?"

Athos cursed silently…he'd almost forgotten about the child.

"He's fine but still sleeping. Contact Jacques Moreau. Have him stand by to receive a call from our location; I'm sure Julien will appreciate his father's reassurance when he wakes."

"Of course. I'll let him know," the young woman's confidence faltered and her voice trembled. "Athos…what if they get worse before the storm passes?"

Pausing to send a silent apology to Thomas, Athos concentrated every ounce of optimism into his answer.

"I have never left a brother behind, Constance," he said. "I do not intend to do so now."

**-o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o-**

Placing the sat phone on the nearby table, Athos rolled the tension from his shoulders and neck and took a deep breath before releasing it slowly. He was a decorated soldier, a seasoned agent and - though he never aspired to it - a natural leader of men. The safety of those under his command was paramount but the members of Alpha One weren't just comrades-in-arms – they were his brothers.

Whether they were in a war-stricken country or facing down a gang of domestic criminals, Athos relied on his training and his intuitiveness to counter any attack and lead his brothers to safety. But right now, their greatest enemy was Mother Nature and Alpha One was completely at her mercy.

Suppressing his frustration, Athos turned to check on his team and found Porthos fossicking in the small kitchen, no doubt checking on provisions. Porthos was a man of action and idleness was something he did not do well. The opening and closing of kitchen cupboards had disturbed Aramis from his sleep and the injured man sat forward in the armchair. Blinking languidly, the medic's handsome face was etched with lines of pain as he peered at Athos and waited for his mind to reboot.

"Why didn't you wake me?" Aramis slurred, rubbing his stubbled jaw. "We need to…to get d'Artagnan to a hospital."

Porthos and Athos exchanged a meaningful look before making their way to the medic's side.

"Something's happened," Athos said with quiet resolve.

Immediately feeling a sense of foreboding, Aramis' dark eyes flicked from Athos to Porthos, not liking their somber expressions.

"The bridge that provides our only exit has been washed out," the lead agent explained as thunder roared loudly overhead.

"Then we must…must call for a medivac," the medic, blanching notably as his traumatized thigh muscles sent a searing jolt of agony to his brain.

"The ground stop is still in force," Athos told him. "There will be no medivac until the storm passes and the ground stop is lifted."

Aramis' dark eyes widened, contrasting starkly against his ashen face.

"D'Artagnan needs immediate medical attention!" Aramis whispered; his anxious eyes darting to the couch where the younger man moved restlessly.

"In case you've forgotten," Porthos told him with a pointed look at the medic's bloodied leg. "He aint the only one."

"Treville will arrange a medivac at the earliest opportunity," Athos told him. "Until then, you are d'Artagnan's best hope of survival."

_It was considered something of a miracle that Aramis had survived the massacre of Savoy and many thought his career in law enforcement was over. It had been a long road back for him; a road plagued with setbacks and hurdles and self-doubt and it was testimony to the man's courage and strength that he had overcome the physical injuries and deep emotional trauma._

_All but those who knew him well, were surprised when, eventually, Aramis had been deemed fit to resume his duties and had passed his recertification with flying colours._

_Three years on, the trauma and misplaced guilt still visited him in the form of occasional nightmares but if there was one thing that could shake Aramis to the core or send him spiraling back to the bloody woods of Savoy, it was his inability to help an injured brother. D'Artagnan was seriously ill and, just like Savoy, there was little Aramis could do to help him - this was Aramis' hell._

The marksman frowned and rubbed his throbbing temples as Athos and Porthos exchanged another glance.

"We just need you to 'elp keep him stable until the storm passes and the medivac arrives," Porthos said gently. "You can do that, yeah?"

The marksman nodded tentatively and carded trembling fingers through his hair as he tried to calm himself.

"Doctor Lemay will be available on the sat phone for any advice or medical support you may require," Athos told him.

"What is the ETA of the medivac," the medic asked.

"Five hours, give or take," Athos replied honestly.

"Five hours," Aramis repeated breathlessly before dropping his head into his hands.

"However, before you see to d'Artagnan, you must first see to yourself," Athos told him. "We need to recheck your wound."

"And you need to eat – keep your strength up," Porthos added. "There's a few cans of soup in the kitchen. It's not much but it'll 'elp tide us over till we get outta here."

A small gasp sounded from behind the large man and he and Athos turned to see the bedroom door closing.

"Julien," Athos stated.

"I'll go," Porthos said climbing to his feet and pointing to Aramis. "Make sure 'e eats somethin', yeah?"

Athos nodded and watched as Porthos walked quietly to the bedroom and disappeared inside.

**-o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o-**

Constance closed her eyes and hugged the handset tightly to her chest. Doctor Lemay was currently making his way back to the garrison while, across town, Jacques Moreau was anxiously standing by his phone waiting for Alpha One to call.

The young secretary dialed Treville's cell again, huffing in frustration when the call diverted to message bank once more. She had hoped the captain's meeting with President Bourbon would be over by now. But Constance knew the eccentric head of state relied on the counsel of vastly more experienced men like Treville and the Minister for the Interior, Armand Richelieu, to provide a broader perspective in crisis situations.

Picking up her empty coffee mug, she headed to the breakroom for a refill. Reaching for the coffee pot, she sighed as, once again, she found it empty. Although she loved her job, there were times when being the only woman in a male-dominated work environment was as tedious as all hell.

While making a fresh pot, Constance's thoughts were drawn back to the Alpha One team and her heart skipped a beat. A raging storm, a washed-out bridge and the fast-rising Yonne River stood between urgently needed medical care for Aramis and d'Artagnan.

Doctor Lemay was a first class physician and gifted surgeon. Following the massacre of Savoy, he had been appointed as Chief Medical Officer and charged with overseeing the health and fitness of Treville's Musketeers. But unless the learned physician could sprout wings and fly to Besslette, Constance wasn't sure how he could be of much assistance.

Her musings were interrupted by the sound of familiar footsteps pounding up the stairs and she braced herself for the inevitable strident command.

"Constance!"

Quickly pouring an extra cup, Constance headed out to greet the captain.

"I'm right here. There's no need to lift the roof," she scolded gently, handing the steaming mug to the older man.

Ignoring her slight reprimand, he turned for his office with Constance following on his heels.

"What is the situation with Alpha One?" he asked taking a seat behind his desk.

The young woman brought him up-to-date and watched as the captain's blue eyes sparked with anger.

"I left the meeting with the president an hour ago," he said brusquely. "Why, in God's name, am I just hearing of this?"

"I tried to reach you several times. Every call went to message bank."

Wrestling his cell out of his jacket pocket, Treville frowned at the five missed calls.

"Damn, useless piece of…" he muttered in disgust before tossing the device onto his desk. "Find me one that works."

"That's the third cell in as many weeks," Constance told him calmly. "I'll get you another from supply but I think it's time you faced the possibility that the problem may be user error."

Treville ran his hand over his jawline and huffed a self-deprecating laugh.

"You could be right," he conceded with a grin. "My apologies, Constance. An hour in the company of Minister Richelieu is enough to make me forget my manners."

_The Minister of the Interior, Armand Richelieu, was a long-time antagonist and outspoken adversary of MASCAT. Richelieu had petitioned long and hard against the need for an agency that had autonomy over the many law enforcement agencies included in his ministerial portfolio. His opposition grew exponentially when several of Treville's Musketeers, including Aramis and d'Artagnan, were hand-picked from various divisions within Richelieu's police force._

_Though there was no supporting evidence, there were those who believed that Richelieu was behind the calculated assassination that brought MASCAT to its knees and placed the future of the agency in jeopardy._

_President Bourbon had ordered a full-scale investigation into the massacre, utilizing the full resources of the police and military intelligence agencies. Within a week, Richelieu had reported that five Central African Republic nationals had been arrested while trying to cross the border into Spain. Their vehicle was searched and the weapons found were later confirmed to have been those used during the attack at Savoy._

_The minister informed the parliament that the attack had been retribution for France's intervention after rebel coalitions had overthrown the CAR government. Treville suspected otherwise. He had insisted on the opportunity to question the accused and was surprised when Richelieu willingly agreed. However, as the men were being transported to Paris, they had overpowered their guards and escaped custody, only to be shot and killed._

_Minister Richelieu had been publicly praised by the president for the swift resolution and the investigation was closed. Any private celebration Richelieu had been planning was thwarted when President Bourbon proclaimed that MASCAT was to be rebuilt effective immediately._

_Since then, a fragile and icy truce had existed between the two senior ministers._

Treville watched as the young woman gazed at the floor and anxiously transferred her weight from foot to foot. She'd been his PA long enough for him to have learned her mannerisms.

"Something on your mind?" he asked.

"Yes, Sir," she replied. "It's just…well…considering Alpha One's situation, I was wondering if the president would make an exception to the ground stop and send a medivac?"

"That's not how this works, Constance, you know that," Treville told her.

"I don't understand! This agency was formed at the president's request. After Savoy, it was the president who insisted that we rebuild our numbers. He knows the work we do here…he was re-elected resting on the laurels of that work!"

"Constance-" Treville attempted to inject but the young woman continued, no longer able to hide the tremor in her voice.

"Sir, Alpha One's success rate is second to none," she said. "I know the president has ordered a ground stop but all we need is one helicopter and we can bring them home! They need our help and they need it now!"

Constance stood before him, her large eyes glistening and her cheeks flushed with emotion. Treville sighed audibly and raked his hands through his closely cropped hair.

"Tell me, Constance, how would it look if the president ordered a military medivac for Alpha One yet denied one for an injured civilian who later died?"

"But, Sir-"

"Forget, for a moment, that he'd be sending an aircraft into perilous flying conditions and think about the crew of four who'd be risking their lives."

Constance worried her lower lip and Treville softened his tone.

"Despite what Alpha One means to us, the president simply could not justify it," he said. "It's a difficult decision but in situations such as this, the only choice you have is the one that leads to minimum casualties. I'm certain that Alpha One would expect nothing less."

"I'm sorry, Sir…I know you're right," she said. "It's just…"

"It's just that you're worried about d'Artagnan and Aramis."

"Yes, Sir."

"As am I," Treville told her. "But don't forget who we're dealing with here. Athos and Porthos will do whatever is required to bring them safely home."

"Yes, Sir," Constance nodded. "Shall I get Athos on the sat phone for you?"

"Not yet. When I speak to Athos I'd at least like to be able to assure him we have a medivac helicopter on stand-by," Treville told her. "Call the BFST base in Pau. I'd like to speak to General Montel Lacroix."

"General Lacroix?" Constance asked. "Athos' former commanding officer?"

"That's right," the captain told her. "Time to call in some favours."

**-o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o-**

Porthos slowly opened the bedroom door and peered into the semi-darkness. Frowning at the empty bed, he heard the shuffle of feet and a quiet sniff from the far side of the room. The boy had pressed himself into the corner, his small body trembling with fear.

"Hey now, don't be scared," Porthos said with a gentle smile. "You must be Julien. My name is Porthos and my friends and I 'ave come to take you 'ome."

Julien was a snowy-headed boy with a sprinkling of freckles on the bridge of his cute, upturned nose. His large red-rimmed eyes narrowed as he stared at the large man before him with anxiousness and doubt.

"You've been sleepin' for a long time," Porthos told him. "We were startin' to think you were hibernatin' like a little bear."

The boy didn't reply but his eyes flicked from Porthos to the door.

"You don't have to worry about anythin'," Porthos said. "The men that brought you 'ere are gone now and they'll never 'urt you again."

"Are you…are you a policeman?" Julien asked, barely above a whisper.

Porthos shrugged.

"Kind of a policeman," he said, grabbing his ID from his pocket and gently tossing it on to the bed where the boy could see it. "My friends and I are Musketeers. You know, I met your papa this morning…he misses you and 'e sent us to bring you 'ome."

The child tentatively reached out his hand and fingered the ID wallet; his eyes oscillating from Porthos to the photo likeness on the ID.

"I know what you're thinkin'," the man said. "You're thinkin' I'm much better lookin' in real life, yeah?"

Julien's lips twisted in a small grin until the roar of thunder overhead had him covering his ears and pressing back into the corner.

"Hey, hey, it's okay. It's just a storm, that's all," Porthos stepped a little closer and cautiously sat on the edge of the bed. "Come to think of it, I didn't like storms much when I was a little mite. My mother used to tell me that thunder was the noise clouds made when they bumped into each other."

Julien raised a skeptical eyebrow in a move that would rival Athos and the larger man huffed a laugh.

"You're not buying that either, eh?" he continued. "I tell you what…why don't you come and meet my friends. I bet Athos could explain what thunder is. Don't tell 'im I said this but Athos is just about the smartest man I've ever met. He knows lots of things. What do you say?"

Porthos held out his large hand but the boy refused it, shaking his head vigorously.

"You don't wanna meet my friends?" Porthos asked.

The question was met by more head shaking before the boy whispered.

"I saw blood."

"You saw blood? Where? Where did you see blood?"

"On the man out there," Julien said quietly. "His leg was bleeding."

"Ah…that's my friend Aramis," Porthos explained. "The men who took you, they hurt Aramis before they…ah…went away. My friend d'Artagnan's not feeling too good either but they're both gonna be okay. They may not be as big or as handsome as me but they're Musketeers and Musketeers are as tough as they come."

"You should take them to a doctor," Julien told him.

"We will, Julien," Porthos told him. "As soon as the storm passes, they'll send a helicopter to take us all home and you can see your papa. How's that sound, eh?"

The first genuine smile brightened the boy's face and this time, when Porthos extended his hand, Julien took it.

"Come on, big guy," Porthos smiled. "Come meet my friends."

**-o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o-**

Treville tapped his fingers impatiently as he waited for General Lacroix to take his call. A long moment later, the annoying on hold music ceased and the general's gruff voice boomed over the speaker.

"Let me guess," the general said. "De la Fere has seen the error of his ways and wishes to return to Forces Speciales?"

"Not a chance," Treville told him. "When it comes to Athos, your loss is definitely our gain."

Lacroix forced a laugh.

"Then tell me, Jean, how can Forces Speciales help the illustrious Musketeers?"

"Monty, I have a situation. This storm has stranded my Alpha One team near the village of Besslette," Treville told him. "I have two agents and a child in urgent need of a medivac. I was hoping you could help us out."

"I'd like to help, Jean, but that's one hell of a storm and Besslette is right in the middle of it," the General replied. "A chopper would act like a lightning rod out there. I can't, in good conscience, risk the lives of my men or a five million euro aircraft."

Treville sighed theatrically.

"You're right, Monty," he acknowledged. "In fact, just three months ago, I said the same thing to Athos when he insisted on leading Alpha One on that suicide mission to Mali to rescue that injured army pilot. By the way, how is your son?"

The general laughed loudly.

"Matthieu is recovering just fine…but I read you loud and clear. Your Musketeers went out on a limb for us that day – I guess it's time we returned the favour. I can't put a bird in the air while the ground stop is on but I'll have a team geared up and a Caïman ready to go. We'll bring 'em home for you, Jean. Send me their coordinates; I'll let you know when we have a go."

"Thanks, Monty, I appreciate the help," Treville said before ending the call.

**-o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o-**

The process of checking Aramis' wound had proven to be exhausting for the marksman and the lead agent. The Celox gauze used to coagulate the blood and stop the bleeding, had adhered to the open wounds and the raw skin surrounding it. Removing it had brought a world of agony to the injured man who still stubbornly refused any pain relief. Aramis had arched his back and clenched his jaw to trap the scream that tried to escape as the gauze was removed in agonizing increments.

The undertaking had left him trembling with exhaustion; his eyes half-closed and his pale skin slicked with sweat – but Athos had been relieved to find that the wounds still appeared to be infection-free. Keeping an eye on his listless teammate, Athos redressed the wound and gently secured a new bandage around Aramis' thigh.

With a sigh that travelled from his boots, he sat back on haunches and allowed himself a moment's respite. Climbing to his feet, he checked that d'Artagnan was still sleeping before moving to the kitchen, opening two cans of soup and placing them on the stove to warm.

A flash of lightning, too close for comfort, filled the cabin with its blinding incandescence and, a heartbeat later, thunder cracked overhead in a belated warning. Athos held his breath as the lights in the cabin flickered but remained on. Remembering the small, antiquated generator he'd seen in the lean-to, the lead agent grabbed his coat and a flashlight and ventured outside to check on its soundness.

The sound of the door closing roused Aramis and his weary gaze was drawn to where d'Artagnan lay full length on the couch. Gritting his teeth against the painful burning sensation in his thigh, the medic awkwardly moved to the younger man's side. He placed the tympanic thermometer in the Gascon's ear and winced as the digital reading showed 102.7.

Refreshing the hand towel in the cool water, he returned it to d'Artagnan's forehead. The Gascon stirred, gazing at the medic with fever-bright eyes.

"Aramis?"

"Shhh, rest easy, d'Artagnan. You must conserve your strength," Aramis replied.

"How long?" d'Artagnan asked. "How long…until we leave?"

Aramis swiped his hand across his bristly chin before explaining the situation to the ailing young man. D'Artagnan had blanched at the thought of waiting another five hours for help to arrive and, as he calmed himself, the trust in his eyes was almost Aramis' undoing.

"I'm sorry," d'Artagnan whispered, his breathing hitching. "This was all…all my fault."

"Do not concern yourself. You have nothing to apologise for," Aramis assured him. "Unless, of course, you conjured up a case of appendicitis to win the favour of Madame Bonacieux."

D'Artagnan shook his head insistently and then groaned in pain.

"My fault you…you were shot," he stammered.

"Lie still," Aramis said, administering a small dose of morphine. "There will be plenty of time later to discuss such matters."

"I'm not going to get my…my commission," d'Artagnan lamented.

"You saved my life, did you not?" the medic reminded him.

"Athos is angry."

"He's Athos; angry is his default position," Aramis quipped, watching as the morphine hit the younger man's bloodstream and his eyelids grew heavy. "Sleep, d'Artagnan. Help will soon arrive."

D'Artagnan blinked slowly until his eyes stayed closed. Beside him, Aramis sighed deeply in relief.

"You really think…think this will…will win Constance's f-favour?"

"Go to sleep!" Aramis grinned.

**-o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o-**

Amaris flinched as, overhead, lightning flashed a brilliant shock of white in the graphite sky and the thunder responded like the fury of the gods.

The cabin door flew open and Athos rushed back into the cabin; his clothes sodden and his wet hair plastered to his head as he left a trail of mud and rainwater behind him.

"Is it still raining?" Aramis grinned mischievously, tossing the lead agent a towel.

Athos rolled his eyes.

"Whatever gave you that idea?" he replied without inflection. "As a matter of fact, I was checking the generator and retrieving your gym gear from the SUV." The older man indicated the gym bag he was carrying. "Unless, of course, you wish to continue parading around in your boxer briefs."

Removing a pair of sweatpants from the bag, Athos moved to assist the injured marksman but was firmly shrugged off - a silent but emphatic reminder that Aramis was more than capable of putting on his own pants. The older man raised both hands in surrender before stepping back a few paces. After several unsuccessful and painful attempts, Aramis growled in frustration.

"Would you mind?" he huffed, ignoring Athos' I-told-you-so expression.

"Not at all," came the courteous reply as the lead agent moved to lend his support. "How is d'Artagnan?"

"His fever has risen. He's confused; anxious," Aramis replied, finally struggling into the sweatpants. "I gave him a shot of morphine, he should sleep for a while."

"The morphine won't interfere with the surgery?" Athos asked.

"The anesthetist will make allowances," the medic told him. "And I'd prefer to control his pain."

"But not your own."

"Athos-"

The lead agent held his hands palms out in a gesture of apology.

"I apologise; I have no desire to make this more difficult," Athos said, his eyes flicking back to d'Artagnan. "You told him of our situation?"

"Of course," the medic said.

"How did he take it?"

"Better than I." Aramis sniffed the air. "Is something cooking?"

Uttering a curse, Athos left Aramis precariously balancing on one leg and rushed to the kitchen. Removing the soup from the heat, he was relieved that he hadn't ruined their only food source. He found several large mugs and began pouring soup into them when the bedroom door opened and Porthos returned with Julien holding tightly to his hand.

"Gentleman, this is Julien," he said, gesturing to the small boy. "Julien, these are my friends. That's Athos in the kitchen, d'Artagnan there on the couch – he's not feeling too good - and the hideously ugly one over there is Aramis."

The boy looked around the living room, nervously edging closer to Porthos. His large eyes darted from one man to the other, no doubt searching for the faces of his kidnappers.

"Your timing is perfect," Athos informed them, indicating the soup with a nod of his head. "Dinner is served."

"And not before time," Porthos groused. "I'm starvin'."

"That is hardly surprising," Athos said. "You are perpetually hungry."

"I'm a growing boy," Porthos replied, urging Julien closer to the kitchen.

"I'd like to check Julien's vitals first," Aramis said, grimacing as he reached for his unit one bag. "Make sure his lungs are clear."

The boy turned frightened eyes to Porthos who took a knee to talk to him face to face.

"It's okay," the larger man smiled. "Aramis is our medic; that's kinda like a doctor. He just wants to make sure you're feelin' alright."

The boy stood rigidly on the spot, not moving an inch. His grip on Porthos' hand tightened.

"'ere's an idea." Porthos said. "You let Aramis check you over and then, after dinner, we'll see about calling your papa, yeah?"

Julien's eyes lit up with delight and threw himself at Porthos, wrapping him in a tight hug.

"I'm gonna take that as a yes," Porthos laughed.

**-o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o-**

Impatiently monitoring her switchboard, Constance noticed the moment the captain completed his call to General Lacroix and she quickly entered his office.

"Well?" she asked.

"Forces Speciales will have a Caiman in the air, the moment the ground stop is lifted," Treville replied. "For the moment, it's the best we can do."

Constance smiled sadly. She knew the affection the captain had for his men, for she had seen what they had not – the thinly disguised worry when one of his agents was injured; the anxiousness and feeling of futility when one of his teams was overdue; and the ever-present burden that came with sending men into situations from which they may never return.

"Doctor Lemay is here," she told him.

"Good. Get him in here and get Athos on the line."

**-o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o-**


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter and subsequent chapters contain medical jargon and procedures. I have no medical knowledge or experience (other than that gained as an all-too-frequent patient). I have tried to be as accurate as possible and hope that any inaccuracies can be overlooked in favour of the story line.
> 
> Once again, many thanks for the support and encouragement. G

 

 

 

Energized by the cyclonic winds, the torrential rain continued to test the stamina of the cabin, pounding on the roof as if it were demanding entrance. The cabin groaned and screeched in protest but stood firm.

Porthos and Athos had taken advantage of d'Artagnan's drug-induced slumber - stripping the younger man to his boxers and placing ice-packs at his neck, armpits and groin to curtail his rising fever. Aramis had started an IV of lactated ringers and an antibiotic prophylactic to prevent dehydration and fight infection and Porthos had rigged an IV stand from an old coat stand he'd found shoved in a corner of the room.

Earlier, when Aramis had examined Julien, he'd been relieved to find that the boy's lungs were still clear and his vital signs normal. Except for the abrasions on his wrists and ankles and a slight headache – a legacy of the chloroform – Julien had no physical injuries from his ordeal. After the boy had eaten some soup, Athos contacted Jacques Moreau and the Musketeers sat in quiet contemplation as they listened to the father and son both shedding tears of joy and relief.

In their respective careers as soldiers and law enforcement officers, the Musketeers had seen more senseless death and tragedy than most people would see in a lifetime. A current of warmth surged through each of them, reminding them that, sometimes, there  _are_  happy endings.

By the time Julien had completed the call, he was emotionally and physically exhausted. Porthos picked him up; surprised when the boy rested his head against his broad shoulder and promptly fell asleep. A hint of a grin teased the corners of the lead Athos' mouth and he marveled at the incongruous contrast of the formidable soldier and the man gently cradling the sleeping child.

"He'd sleep more comfortably in the bed," team leader remarked.

"You're right," Porthos reluctantly agreed. "I'll be right back."

- **o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o-**

D'Artagnan grew more agitated – muttering and squirming as the effects of the morphine wore off and pain in his abdomen increased. Aramis was perched inelegantly beside him on the edge of the couch; his injured left leg stretched out in front of him as he murmured quiet reassurances to the younger man and continued to wipe cooling cloths over d'Artagnan's face and neck.

Athos crouched in front of the fireplace, adding enough wood chips to keep the room warm without overheating it. The lead agent frowned as he watched his medic tend to d'Artagnan. Aramis' healthy tan was gone, replaced by a sickly pallor. He was exhausted, in pain and running on vapors and sheer determination.

Moving from the fireplace, Athos walked to the medic's side and casually placed a hand on his shoulder. The heat permeating through the Aramis' light sweater confirmed the presence of a mild fever. Noticing the barely touched soup by Aramis' side, Athos exhaled in a rush of frustration. The younger man was his friend - his brother - but he had a way of stretching both ends of Athos' emotional spectrum to their absolute limit.

"You must eat," he said gesturing toward the soup. "I'll reheat this for you."

The marksman shook his head.

"Perhaps later," he replied.

"Then you should rest. Porthos and I will sit with d'Artagnan."

When Aramis didn't respond, Athos felt his jaw clench tightly as he wrestled his frustration into submission. This was not the time to argue with Aramis. While the younger man was possessed of an amiable and charming nature, when he set his mind to something, he was as stubborn and bloody-minded as a man could be. Athos took the soup back to the kitchen and poured it back into the pot to keep warm before returning to sit beside him.

"How is he?" Athos asked.

"Not good," Aramis replied, wincing as he re-positioned his injured leg. Raising his head, he looked earnestly at the older man. "He saved my life out there."

Athos nodded grimly.

"A valorous act, without doubt," he replied. "But the fact remains…it should not have been necessary."

The medic pursed his lips in contemplation before continuing quietly.

"Perhaps, not…but when I was hit, the impact jarred my weapon from my hand. The gunman had a clear shot and d'Artagnan did not hesitate. His trajectory and timing was first rate…I could not have done better myself."

The older man raised a quizzical eyebrow and Aramis' lips quirked in a grin as he huffed a laugh.

"Alright, perhaps I could have done better," the marksman conceded with a shrug of one shoulder, "but my point is that despite saving my life, d'Artagnan believes he's about to be fired."

"What?"

"He thinks you are going to recommend to Treville that his probation be terminated."

"I said nothing of the sort," Athos defended.

"Nor did you say anything to the contrary," Aramis said. "He's young, he's insecure and everything he's done since joining Alpha One, has been to please and impress you. Perhaps a kind word would not go astray."

Athos took the cooling cloth from Aramis' hand and gently swiped it over the young Gascon's brow before placing it back into the bowl.

Athos wasn't the type of man who gushed compliments or was known for his open gestures of affection, though there was a time when he wasn't so stolid. Over the years, Aramis and Porthos had learned to hear the unspoken sentiment in his silent appraisals and see the unequivocal pride and affection in the lead agent's eyes but d'Artagnan was still learning his nuances.

"I'll speak with him," Athos promised.

Aramis checked his watch for the third time in as many minutes and thumped his fist on the coffee table.

"What's keeping them?" he growled, tension and concern shining brightly in his eyes. "Why don't they call?"

"They will," Athos replied.

Right on queue the satellite phone buzzed and Athos answered on the first ring as the captain's gruff voice filled the room.

"Athos, I'm here with Doctor Lemay and Constance," he said, dispensing with formalities. "I have you on speaker."

"Captain, what is the status of the medivac?" Athos said as he placed his own handset on speaker phone and set it on the coffee table.

"General Lacroix has a rescue team standing by at Pau," Treville replied. "They have your coordinates and will proceed to your position the moment the ground stop is lifted."

"Any idea of when that will be?" he asked hopefully.

"According to the latest update from Meteo France, the extreme weather conditions are expected to last another three to four hours," Treville said, his brusqueness doing little to disguise his concern.

Aramis dropped his head into his hands in despair and Athos squeezed his shoulder in support.

There was a slight pause and a different voice spoke.

"Doctor Lemay here, Athos," he said. "Is it possible to speak with Aramis?"

"I'm here, Doc," Aramis replied, his voice raspy from fatigue and pain.

"Captain Treville said you believe d'Artagnan has appendicitis?"

"Roger that; I'm certain of it."

"What are his symptoms?"

"Vomiting, fever and severe abdominal pain in the lower right quadrant."

"Any rebound tenderness?" Lemay asked.

"Affirmative and he tested positive to a pinch-an-inch test."

"What's his current temperature?" the doctor asked as he continued to jot down the details.

"103," the medic replied.

"Have you given him anything for the pain?"

"Five milligrams of morphine thirty minutes ago," Aramis replied. "It seemed to take the edge off but he's restless. I started an IV of ringers and an antibiotic prophylactic."

"Good, good," Lemay said. "Keep trying to bring his fever down - use anything you have at your disposal. You may moisten his lips if he's thirsty but nothing to eat or drink since he will more than likely require surgery. How's the child?"

"Julien's fine. Mild headache, minor abrasions on his wrists and ankles, respiration is normal and his lungs are clear. He's spoken with his father, had a small bowl of soup and is sleeping soundly."

"Splendid," Lemay replied before addressing the medic earnestly. "Aramis, should you need to consult with me on anything…anything at all, I'll be here at the garrison all night. We're with you every step of the way. I'll need updates on d'Artagnan's condition every 30 minutes; sooner should his condition deteriorate."

"Yes, Sir," Aramis replied.

"Now if you'd be so kind, I would like a private word with Athos."

Aramis looked at the lead agent and rolled his eyes, knowing he was about to be the next topic of discussion. Leaving his medic to fuss over d'Artagnan, Athos picked up the handset and moved to the other side of the room.

"Doctor?"

"Athos, am I off speaker?"

"You may speak freely," Athos said.

"How is Aramis?" Lemay asked.

"Coping surprisingly well. He has a low-grade fever and, despite being in considerable pain, he refuses to take any pain medication."

"He sounds exhausted," Constance added.

"That and more," Athos told her.

"What is the condition of his wound?" Lemay asked.

"It's a though and though of the outer thigh muscle. The bullet missed both the femur and the femoral artery. The wounds have been irrigated with saline solution and packed with Celox gauze. At this stage, it appears to be free of infection."

"His fever is more than likely the result of shock and blood loss. You'll find some Naproxen and Tylenol in his medical kit – make sure he takes it. Keep his fluids up, water is good but juice or something sweet will help boost his energy levels; and you must try to get him to rest."

"That will be easier said than done," Athos drawled.

"We'll speak again in thirty minutes," Lemay said ending the call.

**-o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o-**

Exhaling loudly through his nose, Treville scrubbed his face with his hands and turned to address the doctor.

"What do you think?" he asked.

"I think the situation is very grave indeed," Lemay replied. "Based on Aramis' assessment, if d'Artagnan's appendix haven't already ruptured, I believe they are on the verge of doing so."

"Oh my God," Constance whispered.

"And if that should happen?" Treville asked.

"A ruptured appendix can cause sepsis and peritonitis. If left untreated it can cause organ failure, even death," Lemay stated somberly.

"There's got to be something we can do!" Constance exclaimed.

"For the moment, my dear Constance, all we can do is pray the storm passes quickly."

**-o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o-**

Athos caught movement in his peripheral as Porthos returned to the living room and joined him by the fire.

"Was that the cap'n?" the larger man asked. "What's the latest on the medivac?"

"There's a BFST team geared up and waiting for the ground stop to be lifted," Athos replied. "Until then, we wait."

"Your old mob?" Porthos repeated. "The cap'n pulled out the big guns."

"Did you expect anything less?"

The larger man frowned and nodded in the direction of their younger teammates.

"How they doin'?"

"D'Artagnan's condition is worsening," Athos replied flatly. "Aramis will not leave his side – not even to eat or rest."

"We'll see about that," Porthos declared as he turned for the kitchen. Athos' hand on his arm stopped him mid-stride.

"Porthos," he cautioned. "You know what this is?

"Course I do," Porthos nodded. "This is Mis' bête noire. We gotta keep 'im from gettin' lost in his 'ead."

"A task that will require a great deal of subtlety and sensitivity," Athos said, staring wide-eyed as Porthos turned on his heel and strode to the kitchen. The larger man poured another cup of soup and thrust the cup at the medic.

"Eat. Now!" he ordered.

"So much for subtlety and sensitivity," Athos muttered as Aramis looked up in surprise.

"Porthos…I have no appetite for soup," he replied wearily.

"Well that's too bad, 'cause soup's all we got," Porthos told him.

Aramis opened his mouth to reply but the larger man waved his hand.

"I don't wanna 'ear it. You're in pain, you're runnin' a fever and you've lost blood. You'll eat the soup yourself or I'll feed it to you. The choice is yours."

The cabin fell into a heavy silence as the two friends engaged in a battle of wills. Just when Athos thought they'd reached an impasse, Aramis dropped his head into his hands; his shoulders slumping in desolation.

"It's happening again," Aramis whispered, turning desperate eyes to his friends. "D'Artagnan's getting worse and all I can do is watch."

Porthos and Athos sat either side of the exhausted medic; the larger man gently squeezing the nape of Aramis' neck.

"This aint Savoy, 'Mis," Porthos said. "It's different this time."

"How is it different?"

"Because this time, you are not alone," Athos replied, placing his hand on the medic's shoulder. "This time, you have us."

**-o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o-**

Twenty minutes was all it took for d'Artagnan to become more restless. Flushed with fever, he repeatedly pushed away the cotton sheet they had placed over him only to be cold and shivering moments later. The cramping in his abdomen intensified. His breathing had become labored as he tried to endure the pain. He gripped the edge of the sofa tightly, sweating profusely and clenching his jaw to avoid moaning aloud.

"d'Artagnan?" Aramis said. "d'Artagnan look at me."

The younger man turned his head toward Aramis' voice; looking without recognition as the pain and fever burned brightly in his eyes. Reaching again for the thermometer, the medic felt his own stomach clench painfully when it registered 103.8.

"He...didn't have to die," d'Artagnan muttered, his long legs moving restlessly. "He was…he was trying to…to help!"

Initially perplexed, the Musketeers exchanged a glance before realization dawned – d'Artagnan was referring to his father.

_Alexandre d'Artagnan_ _had been travelling to the Ecole Nationale Supérieure de la Police, north of Lyon, to attend the graduation ceremony of his only son, Charles. Young d'Artagnan was graduating at the top of his class and Alexandre was quite certain there was no prouder father in all of France._

_On his way to the ceremony, he'd stopped at a jewelry store and purchased a watch as a graduation gift for his son. The jeweler had drawn his attention to a sterling silver pendant of St Michael - the patron saint of policemen. Alexandre had never been a particularly religious man but Charles was his only son and, when it came to his safety, Alexandre would accept all the help he could get. He had the jeweler attach the pendant to a pocket chain and gift wrap it with the watch._

_By the time he'd completed his purchase Alexandre was running very late. As he continued his journey to_ _the graduation ceremony, he witnessed a robbery attempt at a nearby liquor store and ran to assist the hysterical female storekeeper._

_The young robber was similar in age and build to his son; he was also armed and extremely high on crystal meth. Despite the young man's agitation and unpredictability, Alexandre had nearly convinced him to lay down his weapon – until the man fired three bullets into his chest. D'Artagnan senior died at the scene while his son was delivering his valedictorian speech and searching the crowd for his father's face._

"He was a…a farmer not a cop!" d'Artagnan said, his voice hitching. "Why did he…why did he do it?"

Athos leaned forward and turned the young man's face toward his own.

"Your father was a brave and honourable man…much like his son."

D'Artagnan closed his eyes, dislodging tears that slipped over his temple before disappearing into his hairline.

"He's altered," Aramis said. "We have to get his temperature down,  _now_!"

Athos and Porthos wasted no time in re-filling the basin with tepid water. Using fresh cooling cloths, they sponged his limbs, chest and abdomen while Aramis took the younger man's vitals.

Porthos placed the handset of the satellite phone on the coffee table.

"Lemay's on speaker," he said.

"Doc?"

"I'm here Aramis," Lemay replied. "What's the situation?"

"D'Artagnan's condition is deteriorating. His temperature is now 103.8; pulse is 94; respirations 30 and shallow. His abdomen is rigid and painful and he is somewhat altered," Aramis paused, carding his fingers through his hair anxiously. "Doc, he can't wait another four hours."

"I'm afraid you're right. If d'Artagnan's appendix have already ruptured, we have only one option…you will have to operate before the medivac arrives."

The air whooshed from the medic's lungs like he'd been kicked in the solar plexus by a mule and he leaned heavily against Porthos as the blood rushed from his head.

"N-No!" he rasped. "I…I can't!"

"Aramis, listen to me," Lemay said. "You are the one with EMT training, therefore, you are d'Artagnan's best chance of survival."

Lemay kept his voice steady, knowing the overwhelming anxiety that Aramis would be feeling.

"I will stay on the phone and talk you through each step. You are an exceptional medic. If anyone can do this, you can."

"If I operate," Aramis replied. "d'Artagnan may…d'Artagnan may die!"

"There is a chance that may happen," Lemay acknowledged gently. "However, if you choose not to operate, d'Artagnan will almost certainly die!"

**-o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o-**

Aramis' chest constricted to the point where he could scarcely draw breath. Closing his eyes, he was briefly transported to the snow-laden woods of Savoy.

_MASCAT was in its infancy when Aramis and twenty-one others were selected for a recruit training camp. The attack, when it came, was at night – when all but the sentries were sleeping. It was fast, calculated and lethal; ultimately taking the lives of twenty of his colleagues and leaving him seriously injured._

_Three others survived the initial onslaught – Marsac, Michel and Christophe. Physically, Marsac had escaped relatively unscathed but, in his eyes, Aramis had seen the misery and wretchedness of a man whose spirit had been forever shattered. Hope had abandoned Marsac and Marsac, in turn, had abandoned Aramis - leaving him injured and alone to tend Michel and Christophe._

_The young marksman's medical knowledge was basic and their supplies inadequate. Tragically, both young men had died, slowly and painfully, in his arms and, by the time help arrived, the marksman had nearly succumbed to his own injuries._

_No amount of reassurance could relieve Aramis of the crushing guilt. The burden of onus had been so great that, three years later, Aramis still had not found the strength to visit the private cemetery where his fallen colleagues lay. But alone in a chapel with God as his only witness, Aramis had made a vow that no other Musketeer – no brother – would have his life forfeited due to Aramis' lack of medical training._

_He'd studied long and hard and, to date, he'd been true to his word. Aramis had splinted broken bones, sutured open wounds, re-positioned dislocated limbs, performed CPR and life-saving tracheotomies and even the occasional heaemothorax. He'd treated his colleagues for head injuries, fever; dysentery; shock and he'd stemmed the bleeding for GSW's and knife wounds…but he was still just a field medic and an appendectomy was way out of his field of expertise._

"Deep breaths, 'Mis," Porthos deep voice sounded from beside him as his friend placed his large hand on his back to ground him.

Athos crouched in front of the distressed marksman.

"Aramis," he said gently. "D'Artagnan is in trouble and you alone have the training to help him."

"This is…this is madness," Aramis hissed. "D'Artagnan needs a-a surgeon not a medic... _I can't do this!"_

"Athos and I believe you can," Porthos replied calmly. "Doctor Lemay, too. Ya think we'd ask ya if we didn't believe you could do this?"

_"I am not a surgeon,"_  Aramis insisted, despising the desperation he heard in his own voice.

Athos raised his hand and gently squeezed the younger man's nape.

"Nor are you the same man who was left alone in the woods with his dying comrades. You have more skills, more training and more knowledge," the lead agent said. "If there should be just one good thing that comes from the horrors of Savoy…let it be this."

Aramis' eyes flicked to d'Artagnan as the younger man groaned pitifully and writhed in delirium. He closed his eyes for a moment, drawing strength and composure from the two men by his side. Something in the medic's mind clicked, pushing his fear aside and forcing him to focus on the more practical matters.

"How can I be expected to operate when we do not even have anaesthesia?" Aramis asked quietly.

"You have chloroform," Lemay's voice sounded from the satellite phone. "You said the kidnappers used chloroform to subdue the boy. Is there any left?"

"There's a bottle in the room where they were holding Julien," Porthos replied.

"It's not ideal," Lemay said, "but it will render d'Artagnan deeply unconscious and keep him pain free during surgery. You will need a firm surface on which to operate."

"There's a large dining table." Porthos offered. "And I think I saw some disinfectant in the kitchen."

"Perfect," the doctor replied. "Boil some water and scrub the table thoroughly with the disinfectant."

"Aramis, knowing you as I do, I trust your unit one kit is fully stocked?"

"For field assignments, Doc, not surgery," Aramis replied. "We've already exhausted half of the saline and ringers, 5mgs of morphine and some bandages."

"We'll make do with what we have," Lemay said. "Boil more water and let it cool, we'll use that instead of saline should we need it. I have d'Artagnan's personnel file with me - we should discuss his medical history before we begin."

"d'Artagnan's blood type is O positive," Aramis replied. "He's had none of the common childhood illness except measles when he was eight years old. When he was twelve he suffered a greenstick fracture of the right radius when he fell from a tree and he cracked three ribs playing football when he was nineteen. He's had two concussions and, two years ago, he had a slight reaction to penicillin which is why I always carry Bactrim as a substitute."

Porthos gaped at his friend.

"You memorized his medical 'istory?" he asked.

"I am the team medic," Aramis replied. "I've memorized all your medical histories."

A proud grin brightened the larger man's face.

"Course you 'ave," he chuckled.

The cabin became a hive of activity. Clamping down on his anxiety, Aramis sorted through the supplies in his medical kit - morphine, nitrile gloves, Betadine, suture kits, gauze pads, syringes, dressings, butterfly clips, tweezers and scalpels would all be useful.

On the satellite phone, Lemay was instructing Athos regarding the application of the chloroform. As they had no equipment to assist d'Artagnan's breathing, the lead agent and Porthos would need to watch him very carefully for signs of respiratory failure, distress or aspiration.

Porthos had prepared the table for use and located a stool that Aramis could use to keep the weight off his injured leg. He'd taken a moment to check on Julien, relieved to see that the boy was still out like a light. Then, remembering Lemay's earlier instruction, Porthos made the medic a cup of tea and stood over him until he drank it.

Aramis took a sip and grimaced.

"How many sugars?" he rasped.

"Five," Porthos replied. "The doc said the sweetness would give you energy."

"Also diabetes," Aramis quipped but he nodded his thanks and took another sip just the same.

D'Artagnan had been drifting in and out of consciousness. During one of his more lucid moments Athos had explained what was about to happen and watched as panic and confusion besieged him. The younger man flailed his limbs in a failed attempt to get to his feet but Porthos' strength, Athos' soothing words and the remnants of the morphine still running through his veins, provided sufficient impediment and, once again, he lost consciousness. Porthos and Athos carefully lifted the young probationary agent to the makeshift operating table and took a few moments to compose themselves.

They turned to find their medic sitting in the armchair; eyes closed and his lips moving in silent prayer as he fingered a set of well-worn rosary beads. His chest heaved, in and out, as he took several deep, cleansing breaths, before kissing his small crucifix and placing the beads back into his pocket.

"Always makes me nervous when 'e does that," Porthos muttered.

"Whatever works," Athos replied.

Moving across the living room, Porthos crouched in front of the younger man.

"You ready?" he asked.

Aramis took another deep breath and let it go slowly before nodding his head.

"Just a moment," Lemay's voice sounded from the satellite phone. "Aramis, I want you to take some Naproxen and Tylenol before you start."

"Doc-" Amaris started to object.

"I'm afraid I must insist. You have been shot and are running a fever. We simply cannot afford to lose our medic because of a misguided case of stoicism!"

"Stoicism?" Porthos scoffed. "Is that what they're calling bloody-mindedness these days?"

The larger man was spared Aramis' retort when Athos returned with the tablets and a glass of water. They watched as the medic washed them down and placed the empty glass on the table.

"It's time," the lead agent said.

Aramis nodded his assent then hissed loudly as they assisted him to his feet and supported him while he regained his equilibrium. Taking most of his weight between them, they helped Aramis across the room and onto the stool. It was then they realized that their youngest teammate was awake; blinking up at them and licking his dry lips.

"Hey, d'Artagnan, I bet you're thirsty, yeah?" Porthos smiled gently as he placed his hand on the crown of younger man's head. "Wish we could give you somethin' to drink but the Doc says you can't have anythin' just yet. But I give you my word, soon as you're back on your feet, you an' me will go out on the town and drink every pub in Paris dry. I'm buying. 'ow's that sound, eh?"

"I'd take him up on it, if I were you," Athos said in a stage whisper. "The last time he offered to pick up the check, we were still paying in francs."

The young man gave a weak grin before his frightened eyes sought out Aramis.

"This is…is really hap-happening?" he asked.

"It must," the medic replied. "We have no other choice."

"You can…can do this?"

Aramis looked directly into the Gascon's eyes and responded with a confidence he didn't feel.

"I can and I will," he assured the younger man. "If only to ensure Porthos opens his wallet."

D'Artagnan replied with a tremulous smile.

"We should begin," Lemay told them.

Athos prepared a chloroformed pad and moved it toward the ailing man when Aramis grabbed him by the wrist.

"Wait."

Reaching for d'Artagnan's hand the medic pressed a small item into his palm and closed the Gascon's chilled fingers around it. Frowning, the younger man opened his fingers and gave a weak smile when he saw his St Michael's pendant.

"I thought you might like to hang on to that," Aramis told him.

"Patron saint of…of policemen," he said, and blinking away traitorous tears.

"A gift from your father to keep you safe, was it not?"

D'Artagnan nodded, his breath hitching.

"Then rest easy, mon ami," Aramis told him. "Tonight, we will all keep you safe."

The medic nodded and Athos placed the chloroformed pad over d'Artagnan's nose and mouth.

"Take slow, deep breaths and allow yourself to drift off," the lead agent said calmly. "When you wake, this will all be over."

They watched as d'Artagnan's eyes fluttered closed and Athos held the chloroform in place for fifteen seconds. Porthos gently lifted the young man's eyelids, noting his eyes had rolled back in their sockets. He gently shook the Gascon's shoulder.

"D'Artagnan, can you 'ear me?" he asked.

There was no response.

"He's out, Doc," Porthos said.

"Respirations are strong," Athos added, using the stethoscope.

"Splendid," Lemay said. "Give him a hard sternum rub before you make your incision. Let's make sure he's deeply unconscious before we proceed."

Leaning forward, Aramis firmly rubbed d'Artagnan's sternum only to have the younger man moan and move slightly.

"Another five seconds of chloroform, Athos," Lemay instructed. "Then rub that sternum again."

The second sternum rub evoked no response, indicating d'Artagnan was now deeply unconscious.

Donning a pair of nitrile gloves, Aramis liberally applied the Betadine to the younger man's lower abdomen and lifted the scalpel. He paused; watching the fine tremors in his hand before looking at Athos and Porthos with anxious eyes.

"We're right 'ere with you," Porthos repeated from their earlier conversation. "This time, you 'ave us."

Aramis took another deep breath to steady himself and then he made his incision.

**o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o**

**TBC**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed that! G


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N This chapter contains medical jargon and procedures. I have no medical knowledge or experience. I have tried to be as accurate as possible and hope that any inaccuracies can be overlooked in favour of the story line. Once again, I am very humbled by the amount of interest in this story and thank you for your kind comments. G

 

 

Lemay's instructions were clear and precise as he guided Aramis through the first incision of d'Artagnan's skin and then through the underlying tissue. The doctor instructed the medic on how to recognize and separate the muscles before opening the abdominal wall to access the infected appendix.

At the head of the table, Athos focused his attention on keeping his young teammate anaesthetized. He prepared another chloroform pad and, using the stethoscope hanging around his neck, he periodically checked d'Artagnan's heart rate and respirations, just as Lemay had instructed.

Porthos was positioned to Aramis' right, ready to pass any medical supplies as the medic ask for them and with a sizeable supply of gauze pads to mop up the blood. He instantly regretted watching the first incision when he felt his knees buckle slightly. The big Musketeer was not possessed of a weak stomach and had certainly seen some horrifically, bloody scenes during his time with Army Troupes de Marines but this was different - this was d'Artagnan and the young man's life was quite literally in Aramis' hands. His thoughts were disrupted when Aramis cursed softly.

"Doctor?" Aramis said. "There's inflammation of the peritoneum and a lot of pus in here."

"I'd feared as much," Lemay sighed. "The appendix has ruptured. We'll remove it first and deal with the infection as best we can, immediately after. Aramis, you will need to make the incision five centimeters longer to accommodate a peritoneal lavage."

Constance gasped loudly: savagely scrubbing away tears with an impatient hand. "I…I'm sorry…I can't…I need some air."

The scraping of a chair on the floor and the clicking of Constance's heels on the parquet floor was clearly heard over the satellite phone speaker as the distraught young woman left the room.

With continued patience and clarity, Lemay guided Aramis through the procedure of clamping the blood vessels that supplied the appendix. The procedure was made more difficult as he was working with a pair of sterilized tweezers instead of surgical clamps but Aramis managed to tie the blood vessels off adequately. Then, cutting and removing the appendix, he placed the swollen and infected organ into the empty peanut butter jar that Porthos was holding for him. The larger man's stomach roiled.

"Ugh…you know that's ruined peanut butter for me, yeah?" he groused.

Slanting a glance in Aramis' direction, Athos frowned as the medic closed his eyes and took several deep breaths. The shadows bruising his friend's eyes and the lines around his mouth testified to just how much pain he was in.

"Aramis?" he said.

"I…I just need a minute," Aramis whispered, his voice little more than a raspy croak.

Peeling off his gloves, Porthos entered the kitchen and returned a moment later with a glass of water and a cool cloth that he placed on the back of Aramis' neck. The younger man's muscles were shaking with the effort of staying upright and he was holding himself together through sheer force of will. They were all aware that he wouldn't be able to sustain this for much longer.

"You're doin' great, 'Mis," the larger man told him as the medic relished the coolness of the cloth against his hot skin. "You look like crap but you're doing great."

Aramis snorted. Porthos' was never one for false platitudes.

"Here, drink this," the larger man said handing him the glass of water.

Aramis took a few swallows and then a few deeper breaths before looking at his friends' concerned faces.

"I'm fine," he said, the tightness in his voice contradicting his claim.

Treville's voice resonated through the speaker.

"What's happening?" he asked, his concern thinly disguised by his gruffness.

"I'm…I'm ready to begin the lavage," the medic replied as he and Porthos grabbed another pair of sterile gloves from the kit.

"Athos?" the captain asked, not trusting the younger man's self-assessment.

A long moment passed and a grin teased the corners of Athos' mouth. He was unsurprised to see the medic visibly pull himself together, overriding the pain and exhaustion he was feeling. The team leader had seen this before - seen the man tap into some unimaginably deep core of strength - and it had never failed to amaze him.

"Everything is fine, Captain. Aramis is ready to continue," Athos told him.

Sheet lightning lit up the sky and thunder rattled against the large window as the lights flickered and died leaving the cabin in darkness except for the glow from the fireplace.

"Or not…" Athos said flatly.

"Explain!" Treville growled. "What's happening?"

"We've lost power, Cap'n," Porthos replied. "The storm just knocked out the generator."

"Do you have another source of light?" the captain asked.

"We have some flashlights in the car," the big Musketeer. "I'll get 'em."

"Wait," Athos told him. "When I checked the generator earlier I saw a reset switch. Try that first."

"Roger that," Porthos said as he stripped off his gloves, shrugged into his coat and ran out into the storm.

Aramis took a tremulous breath.

"This is going well," he quipped with more than a hint of sarcasm.

"Stay calm," the lead agent told him. "This may only be but a small delay."

A few moments passed in silence before the lights came on again and both men sighed in relief.

"Captain, the power is back," Athos said. "Porthos must have reset the generator."

"Thank God," Treville muttered softly.

The door of the cabin opened again and Porthos returned, dripping wet and slightly out of breath.

"I'm not sure 'ow long that generator's gonna last," he said.

"Then let's do this while we have the light," Doctor Lemay replied as he began to guide Aramis through the next steps.

Using the last of the saline solution and some of the sterilized water, Aramis used a large gauge syringe to perform a very primitive and barely adequate peritoneal lavage. He flushed the cavity several times, desperately hoping that he had eliminated most of the bacteria and infection before it had manifested into blood poisoning or sepsis.

"Close the wound with butterfly clips and a gauze dressing," Lemay said. "Athos, you may stop applying the chloroform."

"We're not gonna suture the wound?" Porthos asked

"Not yet," the doctor explained, "The bacteria that caused the infection in d'Artagnan's appendix are highly toxic and when the appendix ruptured, this bacteria spread through his peritoneal cavity. Although Aramis has flushed most the toxic fluid away it is quite likely it will build up again and the wound will require further draining."

"I 'ad to ask," Porthos muttered, feeling his stomach roil again.

"Doc, I could use some plastic tubing and an empty saline bag to MacGyver a drainage kit," Aramis said. "It won't be perfect but it may help."

"It's worth a try," Lemay said.

Aramis set about his task, willing his hands to still as he secured the makeshift drainage device with surgical tape and used butterfly clips to close the rest of the incision.

"It's done," he said with a weary sigh.

"So…that's it?" Porthos responded. "D'Artagnan's gonna be okay?"

The medic and looked at him with a solemn expression.

"What?" the larger man asked. "What am I missin'."

"Surviving the surgery is the tip of the iceberg," Lemay replied. "Until we get him to a hospital, we have no way of monitoring his blood counts. He could go into shock or his kidneys or liver could fail. I'm afraid his journey is far from over."

**-o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o-**

Soaking a cloth in warm soapy water, Athos gently washed all remnants of chloroform from the younger man's mouth and nose before it could irritate the skin. Even in his unconscious state d'Artagnan's body jerked and twitched as his abused stomach muscles convulsed in spasms.

The lead agent's gaze drifted to his medic who looked as though a strong wind could blow him over. Purplish crescents had formed under his bloodshot eyes and contrasted starkly against his pale skin. He closed his eyes against another wave of pain from his injured thigh, then startled as Lemay's rich articulated tones sounded again through the phone.

"What are d'Artagnan's vitals?"

His respite over, Aramis went back to work; listening to the Gascon's heart and lungs. When he spoke, his voice rough from exhaustion.

"Heart rate is 67. Respirations 31…standby for the temperature reading."

Porthos placed the tympanic thermometer in d'Artagnan's ear and waited for the beep before turning the digital reading to Aramis.

"Temperature is 103.2," the medic replied.

"He's doing rather well under the circumstances," the doctor told them.

Athos leaned closer to the satellite phone so he could be heard without raising his voice.

"Doctor, should d'Artagnan need a transfusion, I, too, am type O positive," he told him.

Porthos snorted.

"Sorry," he chuckled. "Just picturin' our d'Artagnan with your perfect diction and penchant for poetry and too much wine."

The team leader replied with his signature raised eyebrow.

"Let's hold off on blood donors for the moment," Lemay replied. "Direct transfusions can be risky and should be our last resort. We'll ensure the medivac has several units of O positive on board."

"A direct transfusion would not be required if my requisition for dry-frozen plasma had been approved," Aramis said irritably.

"That is a topic we will revisit when you return," Treville said. "For now, let's not forget that you are already the best equipped field medic in the agency."

"And yet, obviously, not equipped enough," Aramis snapped, the words slipping from his mouth before he could censor them.

A long moment of heavy silence passed before Aramis cleared his throat with a quiet cough.

"Forgive me, Captain, I spoke out of turn," he said with a sigh so weary it sounded like it had travelled from the depths of his soul.

"It's been a trying day," Treville replied, pushing back his chair and climbing to his feet. "If you'll excuse me, I need to check with Meteo France for an update on the storm…and I appear to have misplaced my secretary."

Treville strode quickly from the conference room, the door closing noisily behind him. This time it was Porthos who broke the silence.

"How long until d'Artagnan wakes up?" he asked, tucking a blanket around the young man's shoulders.

Lemay paused before answering.

"If I had my wish, he would sleep until we can get him to a hospital but I'm afraid the pain will rouse him within the next thirty minutes or so. Aramis, you will have to ration the remainder of your morphine over the next few hours."

"Roger that," the medic replied.

"We still 'ave half a bottle of chloroform," Porthos suggested. "Will that 'elp?"

"We daren't use any more chloroform," Lemay told him. "Extended use can cause organs failure; that's why it's no longer used as an anaesthesia."

Before signing off, Lemay reiterated the importance of monitoring d'Artagnan's respirations and temperature; stressing that he wanted updates phoned to him every fifteen minutes.

Aramis reached for another syrette of morphine and an alcohol swab. Tearing the swab from the packaging he swiped it over the cannula port of the IV and injected another 5mgs of morphine before placing his hand on the unconscious man's shoulder.

"I wish it could be more," he whispered.

Leaning back on the stool, the medic removed his gloves and rubbed a hand across his brow. There was a throbbing in his temples his rubbing fingers couldn't scour away. When he opened his eyes, he realized he was the subject of intense double scrutiny.

"I am inclined to agree with Porthos," the team leader told him. "You look ghastly."

Aramis smiled wanly.

"You two are crushing my ego," he replied wearily. "Although, I must say, looking ghastly is a step up from looking like crap."

"Your ego could use a little crushing," Porthos teased. "And for your information, ghastly aint better – it just sounds better."

"Nevertheless," Athos continued. "You should rest."

Aramis shook his head.

"Later," he replied, making a minor adjustment to the IV flowrate. "My place is at d'Artagnan's side. He needs to be monitored closely."

 _"Aramis,"_ Athos growled. Exhaling forcefully, the lead agent ejected his frustration with an audible gust of air and prepared to meet the stubborn medic head on.

Porthos stepped between his two friends to mollify the situation and placed his hand on the medic's shoulder.

"We know you don't wanna leave d'Artagnan but you're out on your feet," he said. "You don't 'ave to do this by yourself, 'Mis. We're here - just tell us what we can do to 'elp."

Aramis scrubbed his palms over three days of stubble. Too exhausted to continue the argument, his shoulders slumped in resignation and he nodded his head in reluctant assent.

"We need to get his temperature down," he stated. "Would you replenish the water in these bowls?"

"Course we will," the bigger man said with a pointed look at the lead agent.

Gathering the bowls, Athos followed Porthos to the kitchen, leaving Aramis hovering by d'Artagnan's side.

"Porthos, he needs to rest," Athos said. "Why are you humoring him?"

"You were the one calling for subtlety and sensitivity?" Porthos told him.

"Yes, well, in a moment of madness, I forgot who we were dealing with."

"I know how you feel but, right now, he needs us with 'im not against 'im."

"I _am_ with him but he is needlessly aggravating his own wounds," Athos hissed.

"Maybe," Porthos said, shrugging a shoulder. "Or maybe he's healing some old ones."

"Either way," Athos said. "He's heading for an almighty crash."

"Then, I reckon we'd better be ready to catch 'im, yeah?"

**-o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o-**

Treville stood by Constance's desk, rolling the tension from his shoulders. In his long and illustrious career, the captain had sent men into battle, on top secret sorties, deep undercover missions and into the middle of dangerous gang wars. Never would he have imagined that one of his men would have to perform surgery on another.

While a large part of him was relieved he'd had his best medic at the scene, a nagging voice at the back of Treville's mind wondered what kind of impact this would have on Aramis. The passionate younger man was no stranger to skirting the line of insubordination, but Treville saw it for what it was - testimony that the Aramis was struggling emotionally.

_As the only survivor to return from the ill-fated Savoy training camp, Aramis' physical well-being wasn't the only concern. Before his commission could be reinstated, the marksman had been required to attend compulsory counselling sessions with a government appointed psychiatrist._

_Treville wasn't at all surprised that the younger man had passed with flying colours. Aramis was a charmer – immensely likable and a quick thinker – attributes that made him such a valuable undercover operative. He no had trouble convincing the agency shrink that he was ready to resume his duties._

_Though the captain maintained a professional distance, he knew PTSD when he saw it. He'd seen the tremors in the young man's hands and the fleeting glimpses of horror in his eyes. Aramis startled easily and was prone to nightmares and mood-swings. Treville could have terminated Aramis' commission; in all honesty, he should have terminated his commission - but Athos and Porthos, both highly-trained soldiers who'd experienced their own kinds of hell, had closed ranks around the young ex-cop, supporting him, protecting him and helping him heal in a way no government paid psychiatrist ever could._

Shaking the thoughts from his head, he pondered the whereabouts of his secretary after her tearful exit from the conference room. In the three years Constance had been with MASCAT, she had seen the teams placed in potentially life-threatening situations on an almost daily basis – such was the nature of the job.

But Treville had rarely seen her as outwardly emotional as she had been this day. Scrubbing his face with his hand, he huffed a laugh and silently admitted that understanding the emotions and psyche of a woman had never been his forte – as evidenced by his two ex-wives. But he was very fond of Constance and hated to see her upset.

He followed the loud banging from the down the hall and entered the filing room to find it in chaos; filing cabinets open and their contents strewn around in piles on every available surface. In the middle of the turmoil, Constance sat muttering to herself.

"I was not aware that the storm had wreaked such havoc in our own filing room," Treville said.

"Captain!" Constance said, quickly getting to her feet. "You startled me."

"Then, perhaps, you should consider us even," Treville replied, looking around the room.

"I thought I'd get a start on our old files – get them ready for uploading to our new computer network," she said. "I know it looks chaotic but don't worry…I have a system."

"Constance-"

"I know it may not look like much of a system but I do have a one. Well, to be honest, it's not my system, it's d'Art-…it's d'Artagnan's," she said, her voice hitching on his name. "We were having coffee last week and I told him the problem we were having interfacing our old and new databases and he suggested-"

"Constance!"

Treville's stern tone stopped her rambling and she looked at him with frightened, brown eyes.

"How's d'Artagnan," she asked tentatively.

"Aramis has successfully removed his appendix and performed a lavage," he told her. "The lad's young and strong…he'll get through this."

Constance closed her eyes and said a silent prayer.

"Now, why don't you restore order to my filing room and go home? It's late, you're exhausted and there's nothing more you can do here tonight."

"Please, Captain, I'd rather stay," she replied quietly. "At least until they're on their way home."

The captain narrowed his eyes at the young woman's uncharacteristic behaviour.

"You care for d'Artagnan," he stated plainly.

"Well, yes," she replied casually. "I care for them all."

Treville's eyes widened in surprise.

"All of them?"

"Yes…wait…no…I mean, not like _that!"_ Constance spluttered, feeling the heat of a blush colouring her face. Taking a moment to compose herself, she continued. "I care about all thirty-two of our Musketeers, Captain, and I worry every time they go out on assignment. And don't even try to tell me that you don't worry about them, too – I've seen what the burden of sending them into harm's way does to you."

Treville huffed in opposition but he didn't deny the claim.

"And d'Artagnan?" he asked.

Constance raised suspiciously bright eyes to meet his.

"It's nothing…at least, it's nothing yet. He's been so focused on his job and getting his commission that I'd doubt he sees me as anything more than the agency secretary. But…he's special and I like him and I…I never got the chance to tell him."

"You'll have your chance when we get him home," he told her kindly. "But for now, I need your solemn word that you will never speak of this moment again. I have a reputation as a brusque, no-nonsense agency commander to maintain."

Constance grinned from ear-to-ear.

"Your secret is safe with me, Sir," she said.

"Likewise, I'm sure," he replied with a wink.

As Treville made to leave the room, the phone rang and Constance picked it up on the extension.

She turned toward him, her eyes large and full of hope.

"Captain, it's General Lacroix."

**-o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o-**

Aramis continued his vigil by d'Artagnan's side, applying cold compresses, monitoring his vitals and quietly urging the younger man to keep fighting. But his own pain and blood loss were taking their toll and, with increasing intensity, weariness shaded to exhaustion until his eyes closed of their own volition.

Every time the medic was nearing sleep, d'Artagnan would shift on the table or mumble disjointed words and Aramis would jerk awake, the pain lancing through his thigh like a hot poker, leaving him with sweat-glistened skin and fine tremors running through his body.

Athos hated the familiar frustration but was helpless against it. Taking the cloth from Aramis' trembling fingers he ran it gently over d'Artagnan's face and neck. The younger man felt the coolness of the cloth being pressed onto his forehead and his eyes flickered open, a moment of lucidity in the pain-induced confusion. His teammates were standing over him; concern evident in their eyes.

Removing the tympanic thermometer from d'Artagnan's ear, Porthos frowned deeply.

"'Mis," he muttered. "His temperature's up another point two."

The exhausted medic forced himself upright; rechecking the level and flowrate of the IV before carefully lifting the gauze covering the incision site.

"We need Lemay," he told Porthos.

A long moment passed before the doctor's voice was heard through the speaker.

"Lemay here."

"D'Artagnan's temperature has spiked to 104.1," Aramis told him. "The surface of the wound is inflamed. The drain isn't working, Doc, there's more fluid building in the peritoneal cavity."

"If you are correct, the wound will need to be drained again," Lemay said, his tone solemn. "But he'll need more pain relief."

"I have the morphine ready," Aramis said, anticipating the doctor's instructions.

"Give him another 5mgs."

Aramis frowned.

"Is that enough?"

"Give him 5mgs to start but standby with another 5mg if the pain is too great," the doctor said.

Lemay's primary concern was the combined effect of the morphine and the residual chloroform still in d'Artagnan's system. Too little morphine would subject him to considerable pain; too much could depress his respiratory system and cause him to stop breathing. If this happened, they did not have the necessary equipment to keep the young man alive until the medivac arrived.

Aramis administered the morphine and, working quickly, he readied the plastic tubing and the additional saline and syringes required for the lavage. D'Artagnan cried out in pain and tried to curl into his body as the butterfly clips were removed from his wound. Porthos gently but firmly forced him to lay back while Athos whispered inanities in the hope that the younger man would concentrate on his voice to shut out the pain.

When, finally, d'Artagnan surrendered to the effects of the morphine, Aramis completed the lavage. He had just replaced the final butterfly clip when the Gascon produced a soft coughing sound.

"He's vomiting!" Aramis said. "Roll him!"

Aramis' heart was slamming so hard inside his chest he almost couldn't breathe. Adrenalin surged through his body and out-wrestled his pain perception as he stood on his injured leg to help his friends roll the younger man onto his side. Willing strength into his exhausted body, the medic used some plastic tubing and a large syringe as a suctioning tool until he was as sure that d'Artagnan's airway hadn't been compromised and his lungs remained clear.

It took another thirty minutes of excruciating anxiousness, continually bathing the younger man's over-heated body and constantly checking his vitals before they could report that d'Artagnan's dangerously high fever was beginning to slowly drop.

Blackness encroached upon the edges of Aramis' vision as the adrenalin and fear that had sustained him began to dissipate and the darkness returned to claim him. This time, he had neither the strength nor the will to deny her.

"'Mis?"

He thought he heard Porthos call his name but the sound of blood rushing through his ears made it difficult to hear. The remaining colour drained from his face and his eyes lost focus and rolled back. When his knees buckled, he pitched forward and Porthos and Athos were there to catch him - just like always. Aramis was a dead weight as they lowered him to the ground.

"Damn fool," Athos growled without rancor. "You will always be my penance."

"It's who 'e is," Porthos replied. "And you wouldn't want 'im any other way."

Though the team leader refused to give voice to a reply, he quirked his eyebrow and gave a small smile as he pulled the unconscious man protectively against him.

**-o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o-**

Having pushed himself well passed his physical limit, Aramis hadn't so much as twitched since Athos and Porthos had gathered him up and placed him on the couch. His pale face was relaxed in sleep, his thick eyelashes a dark fringe against the purplish crescents of flesh beneath them.

"And then there were two," Porthos remarked. "Ya think we need to change 'is dressings again?"

Athos looked at the unconscious man and shook his head, remembering the pain that changing the Celox gauze had caused the medic previously.

"Let him rest," he replied.

The strident ringing of the sat phone surprised them both as they realized they'd missed their last check-in with Lemay. Porthos moved to the Gascon's side to take the younger man's vitals while Athos retrieved the handset.

"Apologies, Doctor," Athos said. "We did not realize the time."

"Treville here, Athos," the captain replied. "The storm is rapidly losing its intensity. It's moving to the northwest and clearing a path between Pau and Paris. The ground stop has been lifted. General Lacroix has a medivac in the air and heading in your direction. ETA is forty-five minutes."

Athos and Porthos shared a surprised look. Though it was still raining, they'd been too busy to realize the extreme conditions had eased dramatically.

"We'll be ready, Captain," Athos replied.

Lemay's voice sounded through the speaker.

"Aramis, do you have d'Artagnan's vitals?"

"Aramis is currently...sleeping," the lead agent replied. "Standby for vitals."

"Well, I'm relieved to hear that he has finally taken our advice and decided to rest," the doctor said.

"Somethin' like that," Porthos chuckled. "Doc, d'Artagnan's vitals are as follows; heartrate is 65, respirations 28…and temperature is 102.9."

"He still has a way to go but that's a welcome improvement," Lemay said.

Treville's voice sounded once more.

"We'll see you at the hospital when you arrive," he said.

"Yes, Sir," they replied together.

"And, gentlemen…good work."

**-o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o-**

D'Artagnan woke feeling strangely comfortable. He'd drifted in and out of consciousness, sometimes aware of those around him and other times knowing only pain. He opened his eyes, blinking several times before his world came into focus and he offered a weak smile to the lead agent sitting by his side.

"It's…it's done?" the Gascon asked.

"It's done," Athos confirmed. "Try not to move. You have an infection and fever and will need several days in hospital but we believe the worst is behind you."

"Aramis?" d'Artagnan whispered.

Athos pointed with his chin to where the medic lay insensate on the couch. The medic's pale face was sweat-sheened and his bloodless lips were parted slightly while his head was canted at an angle that guaranteed a stiff neck.

"He looks…looks awful."

"He'll be pleased to know we've arrived at a consensus," Athos drawled.

"He's…he's okay?"

"Let's see…he was shot in the leg, nearly killed, then forced to perform lifesaving surgery…I think we can safely say this hasn't been one of his better days."

"I'm…I'm sorry, Athos," d'Artagnan said, attempting to swallow the knotted misery in his throat as his breath caught in a sob. "I…I let you down and I…I ruined my…chance at a commission. I deserve what…whatever recommendation you make to…to Captain Treville."

"Yes, you do," Athos said sternly. "And that's why I'll be recommending that Treville waive the remainder of your probationary period, effective immediately."

The younger man's mouth hung open as he tried to process the lead agent's words.

"I-I don't understand," he uttered.

"Even before this assignment, you had proved your worth to our team," Athos told him. "However, if you wish to be permanently assigned to Alpha One, such an incident can never be repeated. If you so much as stub a toe, I expect you to tell me. Do you understand?"

"I-I…I will," d'Artagnan said. "Thank you."

"Try to rest," the lead agent said. "The storm is moving to the northwest and the medivac will soon be here to take us home."

D'Artagnan nodded and turned his head in Aramis' direction once more.

"He…he's really…okay?"

"He'll be fine. A few days rest and a set of crutches and he'll be back on light duties before you know it…you both will. Now sleep, that's an order."

With a smile he couldn't suppress, d'Artagnan closed his eyes and let himself drift closer to oblivion.

**-o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o-**

Aramis frowned in his sleep...there it was again...the trill, melodic chirping that insisted on prying him from the comfort of darkness' warm embrace. He tried, once again, to ignore it but it demanded his attention like a jealous lover and hauled him back to wakefulness.

When he opened his eyes the world rippled like the ever expanding waves in a pond before finally calming. Sleep stiffened muscles protested every movement and Aramis gritted his teeth to prevent crying out.

The chirping sounded again to his right and he turned irritably to find Julien staring intently at the phone in his hand; his thumbs moving swiftly over the buttons and the tip of his tongue poking out between his lips.

"Julien," Aramis rasped, hardly recognizing the sound of his own voice.

"Monsieur Aramis, you are awake!" the boy said.

"What are…what are you doing?"

"I'm watching over you as Monsieur Porthos asked," the boy smiled.

"What's that noise?"

"Oh, Monsieur Porthos said I could play the games on his phone until the helicopter comes for us. I'm playing Sebastian Squirrel."

Not yet firing on all cylinders, Aramis frowned and raised his hand to rub at his throbbing temple. Porthos moved to the younger man's side and handed him a glass of water and Aramis gave him a quizzical look.

"Sebastian Squirrel?"

The larger man waved his hand.

"Never 'eard of it. Was probably just an app on the phone when I bought it," he explained.

Julien scrunched his nose and titled his head.

"But Monsieur Porthos, I just beat your high score!"

Aramis spluttered and coughed, lowering the glass as Porthos slapped him on the back.

"Kid's confused," he whispered before adding. "Medivac is twenty minutes out."

"D'Artagnan?"

Porthos gave a tired grin.

"Athos is with him. His fever's down to 101."

Breathing a huge sigh of relief, Aramis matched the big man's tired grin.

"You did it, 'Mis," Porthos said. "We're goin' home…all of us."

**-o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0oo0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o-**

**TBC**


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N Last chapter, my friends, and an extra-long one. I hope you enjoyed the story.

 

 

Though it was still raining, the storm had moved on, leaving a trail of violence and destruction behind it. By a sheer miracle, the cabin had thwarted Mother Nature's attempt to pulverize it; the loss of several roof shingles, the lean-to and front patio was a small price to pay for the shelter and security the little dwelling had provided.

The surrounding trees bore their own battle scars. Some had been violently uprooted, others scorched and shattered by lightning, while the grand old patriarchs - whose massive boles had been tried in a hundred storms - waved solemnly above them, unscathed and erect in their majesty.

Using infrared technology and night vision goggles, the Forces Spéciales pilot landed the Caiman in the clearing in front of the cabin. Running at a crouch beneath the spinning rotors, Porthos met the crew and assisted them to carry their gear inside. Two of the non-medical personnel had been assigned to stay at the cabin overnight until a second chopper could return the following day for the bodies of the kidnappers.

With considerable effort, Aramis had managed to remain conscious long enough to brief the fight surgeon of d'Artagnan's condition and penicillin allergy. The doctor immediately set up an IV of type O positive blood, piggy-backing pain medication and Bactrim for d'Artagnan whose fever had again started to rise.

Through heavy lids, the marksman had scrutinized the doctor's every move, making certain d'Artagnan was in capable hands before finally submitting to his own infusion of pain meds and antibiotics. The stubborn medic was asleep within minutes, not even stirring when he and d'Artagnan were strapped to a gurney and transported to the chopper.

With their two younger teammates safely aboard and Forces Spéciales agreeing to secure their equipment until they could collect it, Porthos lifted a blanket-wrapped Julien onto his hip and he and Athos joined the others on the chopper for the flight home.

**-o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o-**

In the MICU waiting room, Constance was anxiously wringing her hands; desperately clinging onto logic and hope when despair was doing its best to distract her. Looking up, she watched as Treville and Jacques Moreau paced the floor at opposite sides of the room, both lost in their own thoughts.

Moments ago, they had received word that the Forces Spéciales chopper had touched down on the rooftop helipad and a team of medical staff had rushed to help transport the patients. As Lemay had surgical privileges at this hospital, he had already headed for the scrub room to prepare for surgery.

Several long moments later, the elevator door opened and d'Artagnan was wheeled quickly passed them. With professional haste, he was rushed straight into the triage area. Constance had barely caught a glimpse him, save for the dark hair and an oxygen mask that hid most of the Gascon's features.

The second elevator arrived and another gurney was wheeled into view. Though there was no oxygen mask to obscure his face, Aramis appeared to be unconscious. More medical staff appeared, milling around for a moment before guiding the gurney through the swinging doors clearly marked "staff only." The doors had not quite stilled when a young voice called out.

"Papa! Papa!"

Constance, Treville and Moreau turned as Athos and Porthos alighted from the elevator, the boy perched on the larger man's hip. Wriggling to be released, Porthos gently placed Julien on the floor and watched as the boy ran down the corridor and into his father's waiting arms. Both wept unabashed as they kissed and hugged each other for several minutes.

Moreau rose to his feet, lifting the boy with him and, without hiding his emotion, he turned to address the Musketeers.

"I…I don't know how to thank you," he said. "There are no words that adequately express what it means to have my son safely returned to me."

"The pleasure is ours," Athos told him with a small nod of the head.

"Julien's one tough kid," Porthos added with a wink to the child that made the boy giggle. "The doc examined him on the chopper and deemed him good to go."

"He has some rope lacerations on his wrists and ankles but his lungs are clear and his breathing appears normal," Athos added. "However, should you have any concerns, the flight surgeon has recommended that you have him examined by your personal physician immediately."

"Of course," Moreau replied before turning to address Treville.

"Captain, it would be my honour to pay for any medical costs your men will incur," he said.

"The gesture is appreciated, of course, but not at all necessary," Treville replied.

"I must insist. It is the least I can do. I will call the hospital tomorrow and make the arrangements."

"As you wish," Treville responded with a nod of his head.

Julien snuggled against his father.

"Can we go home now, Papa?" he asked, suppressing a yawn.

"Of course, mon fils," Moreau said giving the boy a gentle squeeze.

Moreau paused to shake hands with the three men before gallantly placing a chaste kiss on Constance's knuckles. They watched as father and son walked to the end of the corridor and pressed the button to call the elevator. Julien titled his head back to speak with his father, who smiled and nodded his head. He placed his son of the floor and, turning on his heel, the little boy rushed back down the corridor, almost tripping as he reached Porthos who plucked him into the air before he fell.

"Whoa there, crazy legs," Porthos chuckled as the boy wrapped his skinny arms around the large man's neck and squeezed for all he was worth.

Leaning back, Julien placed a dimpled hand either side of Porthos' face.

"Thank you for saving me," he said earnestly.

Porthos swallowed the large lump in his throat.

"You're most welcome," he said with a hint of emotion. "You look after your Papa, yeah?"

"I will," the boy said before leaning dangerously toward Athos.

The lead agent moved quickly to prevent the child from toppling on his head and Constance stifled a giggle as Athos held him like he was holding a baby rattle snake.

"Thank you, Monsieur Athos," Julien said. "I hope Monsieur Aramis and d'Artagnan get well quickly."

With a smile that looked more like a grimace, Athos patted the boy's back as Julien wrapped him in a huge hug and then returned to his father.

Turning for one final wave, the two entered the elevator and were gone.

**-o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o-**

Constance turned concerned eyes to Athos and Porthos.

"How are they?" she asked.

Porthos smiled wearily and shook his head.

"Slept like babes all the way 'ere – not a murmur out of either of 'em," he told her.

"Which likely had more to do with the powerful pain medication than their condition," Athos drawled.

"They're young and strong and in good hands," Treville said. "You got them back here…that's all that matters."

Constance eyed the two bedraggled men in front of her and her eyes softened as, not for the first time, she marvelled at the closeness of these men. The hours of tension and emotional turmoil at the cabin, had taken its toll and both Athos and Porthos were beyond exhausted.

"Oh, for heaven's sake, sit down before you fall down, the pair of you," she said without rancour.

No sooner had the agents made use of the hard-plastic chairs when the swinging doors to the triage department opened and a scrub nurse walked in their direction.

"You're here for Agents d'Herblay and d'Artagnan?" she asked.

"Yes, we are," Treville replied on their behalf. "How are they?"

"They're being prepped for surgery right now."

"Any idea of how long the surgery will take?" Treville asked.

"If there are no complications, they'll be at least an hour in theatre and you can expect another hour or so in recovery," she said holding the clipboards aloft. "However, we will be needing their personal information for our records?"

With a weary sigh, Athos reached out to take them from her but Constance swiped them from his grasp.

"Best I take care of those," she told the nurse. "This lot can hardly keep their eyes open."

"You can leave the forms at the nurse's station when you're finished," the nurse smiled. "I'll be sure to let you know when you can see them."

As the nurse disappeared back into the triage area, Constance took a seat on a nearby couch and commenced filling in the admission forms.

"Would it do any good to tell you to go home and rest?" Treville asked.

He watched as his agents straightened their shoulders and opened their mouths to protest before he waved them silent.

"There's a patisserie across the road that opens all night. Go. Get some fresh air and eat something."

When neither man moved the captain scowled and his voice took on an edgy tone.

"Do I need to make it an order?" he demanded.

"No, Sir," Athos said, grabbing his larger teammate by the arm and pulling him toward the elevators before Porthos could say something he'd later regret.

Treville shook his head as he watched them go. He knew these men well - he knew the strong bond they shared with Aramis and were quickly forging with d'Artagnan. The captain would bet his house that the two agents would arrive at the patisserie; buy their food to go and scoff a pastry on the way back. They would return within twenty minutes and insist they had followed his orders to the letter. The captain chuckled quietly.

'Damn them,' he thought. 'They'd be right.'

**-o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o-**

Having returned to the hospital with coffee, baguettes and pastries for all, Athos and Porthos now sat opposite Constance and Treville, waiting for news of their younger teammates.

Constance had attempted to establish an up-tempo conversation that had petered away to silence as their concern and impatience grew. After what seemed like an eternity, the young scrub nurse returned with news that both men were out of surgery and Doctor Lemay would join them shortly with more information.

Lemay made an appearance twenty minutes later, still dressed in his scrubs. He looked tired but gave a reassuring smile as he approached them.

"Doc?" Porthos said, rising quickly. "How are they?"

"They are going to be fine," Lemay told them. "My colleague, Doctor Dupre, operated on Aramis' thigh – he's one of Paris' finest orthopaedic surgeons. The bullet did considerable damage to the flexor muscle but he managed to repair it. Aramis will need to use crutches for several weeks and will need to undertake physiotherapy to strengthen the leg but, with care, he should recover fully."

"When can we see 'im?" Porthos asked anxiously.

"He'll be moved to a private room in just a few moments. He has a fever but, if that resolves itself in the next few hours, and provided he can be trusted to stay off that leg, he can go home tomorrow."

Porthos and Athos exchanged a glance, both knowing that keeping their stubborn marksman off that leg was going to take some doing.

"D'Artagnan?" Athos asked.

"I performed another peritoneal lavage and we've given him another unit of whole blood to counter any toxins that have entered his bloodstream," the doctor said. "He's still running a very high temperature and he'll have a drain in for several days but we're confident of him making a full recovery. He's a very lucky young man. If his appendix had not been removed when they were, he would most certainly have succumbed to sepsis."

"Can we see him?" Athos and Constance said simultaneously.

"I'll make arrangements for you to see him once they have him settled in the high dependency ward. Don't expect too much from him though, he's still a very sick young man."

Shaking hands with the doctor, Treville turned to face the others.

"Now that I've attended the sick, it's time to attend the able-bodied," he said, checking his watch. "The morning shift starts in two hours and I've a meeting with the president."

"Yes, Sir," Athos said.

"Alpha One is off rotation until further notice. Keep me informed of any developments. I'll try to come by later."

The captain turned to Constance and saw the pleading look in her eyes.

"I'm sure I can muddle through without you for a day or two," he said, giving her a quick wink. She smiled bashfully in reply as the captain made his way to the elevators.

**-o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o-**

Athos and Constance were guided to the doorway of d'Artagnan's glass-walled cubicle in the high dependency ward. The lights were muted and Constance took a shuddering breath, startled by the amount of complex and intricate equipment.

D'Artagnan's pale face was partially hidden beneath an oxygen mask and a network of wires and tubes ran from various IV's to his body.

"I know it looks overwhelming," Lemay said, "but try not to let the hardware worry you. Preliminary testing on his kidneys and liver showed no damage – the dialysis machine is here only in case of emergency."

Moving to stand beside the bed, Constance stroked d'Artagnan's cheek, feeling the heat of the fever coming from him in waves.

"He's so warm," she said, her voice thick with emotion.

Lemay nodded.

"Fever is the body's way of fighting infection," he said. "We've placed cooling pads underneath him and he's receiving large doses of Bactrim."

"The oxygen?" Athos asked.

"Precautionary," the doctor replied. "His lungs looked clear on the x-rays but with the combination of morphine chloroform and the anaesthesia, we'd like to ensure they stay clear. In fact, we could probably switch him from the mask to the nasal trumpets in an hour or so."

Lemay swiped the chart hanging from the end of d'Artagnan's bed and perused the latest notations.

"All in all, he's doing very well. Aramis did a remarkable job removing his appendix and ridding the wound of the majority of the infection."

"He'll be greatly relieved to hear that," Athos replied.

"D'Artagnan should sleep for several hours and the nurses will be in regularly to check his condition. He's in very good hands," Lemay said. "I don't suppose I could persuade you both to go home and get some rest?"

Raising one eyebrow, Athos replied with a determined look.

"I thought not," the doctor sighed, moving toward the door. "Well, if you've no objections, I'll like to check on Aramis before adjourning to the doctor's lounge. Have the nurses page me if you've any concerns."

"Thank you, Doctor," Constance said watching him leave.

Overwhelmed with fatigue and the emotion, Constance closed her eyes against the swell of tears that, despite the barrier, tracked a trail of mascara down her cheeks.

"He's going to be fine," Athos said.

"I know…I…I'm sorry," she said, rifling through her purse and producing a handkerchief. "I don't know what's got into me."

"I think you might," he said with a mischievous glint in his eye that caused the young woman's face to colour with the heat of a blush.

Constance huffed a laugh and rolled her eyes.

"First the captain and now you," she said. "Here I was thinking I'd been doing such a great job keeping things on a professional level."

"Mmm…not so much," he drawled.

"You're one to talk," she glared back. "You think I didn't notice you strutting around like a peacock when d'Artagnan cracked that decryption code for the Maison case? Admit it, Athos, just like Aramis and Porthos, d'Artagnan has gotten under your skin."

"Like three gigantic parasites," Athos replied, failing to keep the humour from his voice.

Constance slapped him playfully on the arm.

"You're not fooling me, Monsieur de la Fere," she grinned.

He pulled her in for a one-armed hug.

"Likewise, Madame Bonacieux," he replied before they continued their vigil over their unconscious friend.

**-o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o-**

Doctor Lemay checked the chart at the end of Aramis' bed. Seemingly content with the marksman's progress he gave Porthos a reassuring nod.

"He's doing well," the doctor said. "He has a slight infection, though his fever is higher than we'd like. I'll have the nurses administer something for that."

"Shouldn't he be wakin' up by now?" the larger man said with a frown.

"He will in his own time," Lemay replied, watching Aramis' eyelids twitch furiously from the movement underneath. "Though, I must say he appears to be having quite a vivid dream."

"That's what I'm afraid of."

Lemay met the Musketeers concerned gaze.

"Savoy?"

"When we brought 'im back from there, his dreams tormented 'im for weeks…months even. He'd wake up screaming for Michel or Christophe, even…even Marsac," Porthos said, almost spitting the last name. He took a deep breath remembering the sickening rush of fear that had surged through him each time Aramis woke from a nightmare and had turned those desperate, empty eyes to his, begging mutely for help. "Savoy nearly broke 'im;  _should 'ave_  broken 'im…but we got 'im back. He shouldn't 'ave to go through this again."

"None of you should," Lemay replied. "Do the nightmares still come?"

Porthos narrowed his eyes suspiciously and remained silent. As MASCAT's chief medical officer, Lemay had the power to pull any agent from active duty if he deemed him unfit. Aramis had worked too hard on his recertification to be sidelined now.

"I'm asking not as his physician but as a friend," Lemay told him.

Porthos sighed audibly and rested his hand on Aramis' shoulder; pleased when the younger man settled a little.

"Now and then," he admitted with a shrug. "An assignment gone bad or when he's sick…sometimes he just gets lost in his 'ead, you know?"

"I understand," Lemay said. "One can't reasonably expect to survive such horrors without forever bearing the scars."

"You think he'll go dark side on us again?"

The doctor pursed his lips and considered his words carefully.

"I am not a psychiatrist but I believe Aramis has two things in his favour," he said. "One – the outcome is completely different; he saved d'Artagnan's life."

"And the other?"

"He has you and Athos to ensure it doesn't happen again."

Porthos chuckled softly.

"Yes he 'as," he said.

**-o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o-**

D'Artagnan stirred restlessly as the fierce pounding of a headache and the sharp twinge of traumatized abdominal muscles urged him from sleep. He could hear a voice calling his name but he was in no great hurry to open his eyes and come away from the dark comfort he found himself in.

The voice was persistent, gruff yet gentle in equal measures, and it drew him away from the void and closer to awareness. Heavy eyelids fluttered open to reveal slithers of dark brown irises before closing against the harsh light. He tried again - blinking owlishly as he struggled to focus on his surroundings. Not fully cognizant, his bleary eyes darted around the room searching for something, or someone, to lock onto.

Athos stepped forward into d'Artagnan's line of sight. He saw the fear and confusion in the younger man's eyes but when the haze of his panic lifted and dark eyes focussed on green, they reflected a measure of trust reserved for no other.

"Try not to move. You're in the hospital and you're going to be fine," the lead agent said, watching as the Gascon's tongue flicked over his dry lips.

Reaching for the cup of ice chips the nurse had left earlier, Athos handed it to d'Artagnan. The younger man took a small mouthful, savouring the coolness in his dry throat.

"How are you feeling?" Athos asked.

"Like I've been gutted like a fish," d'Artagnan grimaced.

"I'm quite certain Aramis would take exception to such a harsh critique of his efforts," he said dryly. "Particularly as he saved your life."

D'Artagnan tried to sit up, hissing as he aggravated his incision.

"Where is he? Is he alright?"

"He's fine. His surgery went well and Porthos is with him down the hall."

"I want to see him," d'Artagnan said. "I need…I need to thank him."

"In due time. For the moment, you both need your rest."

D'Artagnan nodded sleepily, his eyelids growing heavier after each blink. He was almost asleep when he heard footsteps and recognised another familiar voice.

"They didn't have latte so I got you a hot tea, I hope that's alright?"

Constance stopped abruptly, still holding the cup out to Athos and staring at the young man in the bed who was blinking back at her like he'd seen an apparition.

"Constance," d'Artagnan rasped. "You…you came to see me?"

The young woman floundered, searching for a reply.

"I came to see Aramis," she said, noting the hurt that flickered in the young man's eyes. "And you, of course…that is…I came to see Aramis  _and_  you. It's part of my job, you know, as Captain Treville's personal assistant."

"Oh," he said, looking crestfallen. "Well, thank you for coming. I hope it wasn't too inconvenient."

"Not at all," she smiled warmly and watched as d'Artagnan's eyes closed and he drifted back to sleep.

She grimaced as she met Athos' questioning gaze.

"I know!" she replied to the unspoken question. "But it just didn't feel like the right time."

"In my experience, there rarely is a right time," he said walking to the door. "I'd like to check on Aramis, will you stay with d'Artagnan?"

"Of course I will," she replied.

She watched Athos leave before walking to the head of the bed and gently carding her fingers through the sleeping man's hair.

"I'm not going anywhere," she whispered.

**-o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o-**

Porthos had dragged a chair closer to the bed and resigned himself to keeping watch over his injured friend. He scrubbed his hands over his goatee and wondered how many nights since Savoy, had Aramis twisted awake in the grip of some nightmare. Three years on, the nightmares were becoming much less frequent but when the younger man was sick or injured and too tired to evade the memories that circled like vultures, the nightmares would return.

In his sleep, Aramis' mind was allowed free rein and it took advantage of that freedom to create dark and twisted dreams of Savoy. The marksman heard himself pleading with Michel and Christophe to stay alive – begging for forgiveness for not possessing the skill to save them - or beseeching Marsac to return and not abandon them. He felt the frigid air freeze his lungs and the frozen ground bite deeply into his flesh and bones; he smelled the acrid stench of death with every inhalation and he heard the insidious whispers of his own mind…whispers of hopelessness, of grief and failure.

Porthos continued to watch helplessly as Aramis struggled restlessly against the confines of the heavy blankets. The marksman's breath stuttered out in staccato bursts, his eyes still moving wildly under closed lids.

Strips of morning sun filtered through the slats of the Venetian blinds, as exhaustion foiled Porthos' best intentions; his eyes slipped closed and sleep pulled him under.

That's how Athos found them – as he had so many times before - the larger man asleep in the chair by Aramis' bed, his large hand on the marksman's shoulder, giving and receiving comfort through touch. The lead agent took a seat on the other side of the bed - his presence the only support he could give them – until he, too, succumbed to sleep.

They had no idea how long they'd slept before Aramis sat bolt upright beside them yelling d'Artagnan's name. Gasping desperately for air, the younger man worked to pull oxygen into his lungs. The bed dipped on either side of him, then a voice in his ear commanded.

"Aramis, wake up," Athos said. "Look at me! It's just a dream, you need to wake up!"

Wide brown eyes met his, still heavy with sleep and revealing a naked pain in their depths. The team leader's heart lurched in sympathetic reaction.

Aramis felt a hand on his back, not moving, just grounding him as the world slowly and painfully came back into focus and he managed a hitching breath.

"You back with us?" Porthos asked, receiving a tentative nod in reply.

A glass was thrust into his hand with the order to drink and, as he managed to comply, the liquid soothed his dry throat. The bedhead was raised and, cautiously, he sunk back against the pillows; straightening his legs and hissing as he jostled his heavily wrapped thigh.

"Where's d'Artagnan?" he asked urgently.

"He's sleeping, just a few doors down," Athos told him.

"He…he was there. At…at Savoy," Aramis uttered, his eyes overbright in his ashen face. "I…I couldn't save him."

"He wasn't at Savoy, Mis," Porthos assured him. "But you did save 'im. He's gonna be just fine."

Aramis frowned as his confused mind tried to sift reality from fiction.

"I need to see him," Aramis said, throwing the blankets back and trying to ease his injured leg over the side of the bed.

"Whoa," Porthos said, placing a restraining hand on the younger man's arm. "You ain't goin' anywhere till the doc says you can get outta bed."

Aramis shrugged free from the larger man's hold and defiantly took his weight on both legs. He took a small step, gritting his teeth to keep from crying out as Athos blocked his intended path.

"Don't be stupid," the lead agent said. "You can scarcely stand let alone walk."

"Then help me," Aramis said. "Get me some crutches or a wheelchair."

"I will not aid you in this foolishness," Athos said.

"Then I'll crawl if I have to," Aramis hissed. "I need to see d'Artagnan with my own eyes."

"What the devil is going on in here?" Treville said from the doorway. "I can hear your voices from down the corridor!"

The three agents had sense enough to look chagrined by the reprimand, each mumbling an apology. With his hands on his hips and piercing blue eyes bright with anger, Treville pointed at Aramis.

"You, get your arse back into that bed before I have Lemay sedate you for a week!"

"Sir, I-"

Aramis' objection died on his lips as he saw the fierce intent in the captain's eyes.

Treville then turned his attention to Porthos and Athos.

"You two have been here all night. Go home, get some rest and unless you want Aramis going home bare-arsed tonight, get him some clothes. I don't want to see you for at least four hours. Have I made myself clear?"

"Yes, Sir," the older Musketeers replied together.

Giving Aramis twin  _"don't do anything stupid"_  looks, Athos and Porthos left the room and headed for their respective apartments, leaving Treville and Aramis alone.

**-o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o-**

Treville reached out a steadying arm and helped Aramis back into the bed. The younger man's forehead was beaded in sweat from pain and exertion and he squirmed under the captain's scrutiny.

Grabbing a nearby chair Treville flipped it around and straddled it, crossing his arms over the back.

"You want to tell me what that was all about?" he asked.

"Not really, Sir, no."

Aramis had hoped to let the matter drop but Treville had other ideas.

"You wanted to see d'Artagnan?"

"I wanted to be certain he was recovering well."

The captain frowned.

"Did Porthos and Athos not tell you of d'Artagnan's condition?"

"They said he was going to be fine."

"But you didn't believe them?"

"No, Sir, I…I just needed to see for myself."

Treville watched his young agent intently, saw him trying to marshal the emotions churning inside him.

"Aramis, talk to me," the captain asked quietly.

"I assure you, Captain, it was nothing…just a senseless dream."

"Don't do that, son," he said. "You think I don't know what this is? You think I don't know PTSD when I see it? This whole thing with d'Artagnan's appendicitis has brought those fears to the surface."

The knot in Aramis' chest tightened until he could barely breathe and his head dropped suddenly, as if the burden of shame had made it too heavy to hold up.

"Aramis," he said gently. "Look at me, son. Do you think you're the only one who has ever felt the crushing weight of PTSD?"

The younger man shook his head.

"I carry my own guilt from Savoy and I, too, am visited by occasional nightmares."

"You, Sir?" Aramis uttered incredulously.

Treville's eyes dimmed with recall and after several slow minutes of silence, he finally gave voice to his memories.

"As a commanding officer, every time you lose a man you lose a small part of yourself. Though you do everything in your power to avoid it, you tell yourself that losing men in battle is the price we pay for our freedom – you keep telling yourself that until you believe it."

The captain paused, taking a deep breath. He didn't make a habit of putting his emotions on display but long acquaintance had taught Aramis to recognize the signs.

"I never expected to lose men at Savoy," Treville continued. "I sent twenty-two young men to a damn training camp on home soil – I had every right to believe that they would all return safely at the end of that week. But only you came home, Aramis, and even then there were times we thought we'd never really get you back. If you think I don't feel the weight of their loss, every single day…then you don't know me at all."

Aramis stared at his hands swallowing convulsively around the lump in his throat.

"The magnitude of what we lost that day can never be fully measured," the captain said. "If I've learned anything over the years, it's that those who lost their lives in the service of our country, deserve to be honoured; the past deserves to be studied and remembered but living needs to be done in the present. Life moves on, son, and the best anyone can hope for is to learn how to live in the company of those memories...what we can't fix must be endured."

The young Musketeer  _looked_  deep into his captain's eye, searching there for the  _answers_  he so  _desperately needed_.

"I've tried. How can I learn to live with those memories?"

"I wish I had the answers you seek. I wish I could end your torment," Treville said with genuine regret. "But true grief is personal…only you can find your own closure…your own peace."

Deepening the intensity of his gaze, he communicated to the younger man through their visual connection what he could not say out loud:

' _You can do this, Aramis. I'll be right here with you.'_

**-o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o-**

Looking and feeling more refreshed, Athos and Porthos alighted from the hospital elevator, each carrying an overnight bag from Aramis and d'Artagnan's respective apartments.

From the inception of the MASCAT, the Alpha One teammates had kept spare keys to each other's apartments, in case of emergencies, and a packed overnight bag in the wardrobe of their master bedrooms.

Popping their heads into Aramis' room they grew alarmed to find a nurse's aid changing the linen of the bed and their marksman conspicuous by his absence.

"I beg your pardon, Mademoiselle," Athos said. "We are looking for our friend, Aramis d'Herblay. This is his room."

"This was his room, Monsieur," she replied. "He discharged himself about a few hours ago."

Athos slanted a look at the larger man's steely expression.

"I'll kill 'im," Porthos growled as they hurried for d'Artagnan's room.

Constance was quietly reading when the two Musketeers rushed through the door.

"Where the 'ell is he?" Porthos asked.

"Shhhh!" Constance whispered tersely, rising to her feet and glancing worriedly toward d'Artagnan's sleeping form. "What's the matter with you? This is a hospital, you can't be…wait…where's who?"

"It appears Aramis has discharged himself," Athos said. We thought he might be here with d'Artagnan."

"He hasn't been here," Constance said. "When the captain left, he said that Aramis was sleeping and would visit with d'Artagnan later."

"Then we gotta problem," Porthos said. "Cause he's not 'ere and he's not at his 'ome."

"We have another problem," Athos said. "You have his pants."

**-o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o-**

"I'm still gonna kill 'im" Porthos fumed as Athos negotiated the mid–afternoon traffic.

"Not if I get to him first," Athos replied.

"What the 'ell was he thinkin'? Signing 'imself out and leavin' the hospital in nothin' but a set of borrowed scrubs?"

"We should be thankful he changed out of the gown," Athos quipped.

"This ain't funny," Porthos hissed.

"No, it's not but Treville gave us a good idea where he thought Aramis might be headed. If he's correct, this could be the start of something good."

"Yeah, maybe," the larger man conceded. "But why now? He's never been near the place before."

"Perhaps he's ready now."

"Maybe," Porthos said thoughtfully. "But I still say we 'ave him fitted for one of those GPS implants."

They parked the car at their destination and found Treville waiting by the ornate gateway.

"Is he 'ere?" Porthos asked worriedly.

"He is," the captain replied. "The curator said he arrived by cab about two hours ago. He's just been sitting there ever since."

"If you don't mind me asking, Sir," Athos said. "How did you know he'd be here?"

Treville gave an uncharacteristic shrug.

"Lucky guess," he said, looking fondly in Aramis' direction.

"We've got 'im now, Sir," Porthos said.

"Get him back to the hospital," Treville said, turning for the parking lot. "I want him checked by Lemay once more before you take him home…that's an order."

"Yes, Sir."

They walked shoulder to shoulder along the narrow, gravelled path, lined with immaculately kept ornamental trees and hedges that had fared surprisingly well during the recent storm. There was absolute stillness – not even a gentle breeze to stir the grass or the leaves. It looked like any other privately-owned, walled park with exception of the small chapel in the far corner and two rows of ten, white marble headstones, each engraved with the fleur de lis and the names of those lost at Savoy.

They didn't see him at first and we starting to get concerned when they spotted the dark headed man sitting on the grass between Michel and Christophe's resting place. Sensing their quiet approach, Aramis wiped his eyes with his sleeve and took a few deep breaths to calm himself.

There wasn't much they could do for him but wait. They could demand he talk to them – tell them how he was feeling - but they had learned long ago and from bitter experience that would only result in the younger man placing an almost impenetrable defensive wall between them.

They could sit him down, throw an arm around his shoulders and repeat meaningless platitudes but their friendship was based on honesty and trust. As difficult as it was, they did what they had always done – they watched and they waited. Waited for the younger man to think himself to a standstill and push his stubbornness aside long enough to realise he didn't have to do this alone.

After a moment, he lifted his crucifix to his lips and made a sign of the cross.

"Rest in God's grace, my friends," he whispered.

Saying it aloud hurt and ripped open the still-raw pain of loss. But, with sudden clarity, he realised that it was not his friends' forgiveness he sought - he needed to forgive himself.  He had tried to save the lives of his friends with everything he had in him but their injuries were too great. He had always accepted that in his head but finally,  _finally_ , his heart was ready to accept it, too.  A crushing weight was lifted and the insidious guilt that had lived within him as a malignancy for three years, was vanquished.

He felt Porthos' hand press against his back while Athos gently squeezed the nape of his neck and the heat and weight of them were his undoing. He turned his face away when he felt his control slipping again. A strangled sob escaped before the gates opened and he wept openly, knowing his friends would understand. In the first weeks after Savoy, they had seen him in his weakest moments, at his most unprotected and humiliatingly vulnerable. He should have felt ashamed in their presence but instead he felt bolstered and comforted as he wept like he had never wept before.

They gave him time to regain his composure - not hurry and not judging - just providing him with their solid support, as always. He cleared his throat and turned back to face his friends, his reddened eyes hollowed by fatigue and pain. He was completely spent and shivering so violently that they could hear his teeth chatter.

"I'm ready," he whispered.

"You do realise you're sitting on wet grass all this time, yeah?" Porthos asked, removing his jacket and placing it around the younger man's shoulders.

"That fact did not escape me," Aramis shivered.

"And yet, you continued to sit here," Athos said.

"Getting down was the easy part," Aramis admitted. "But I've been sitting here for quite a while and...I don't believe I can get up."

"And you're tellin' us this  _now_?" Porthos growled. "Are you insane?"

"Perhaps…but that's a discussion for another time. Right now, I'd appreciate a hand up."

Aramis was cold, his muscles had stiffened from being in one place for too long and by the look of the lines etched into his too pale face, he was well-overdue for his pain medication. Getting the marksman to his feet proved more difficult than expected as Aramis swayed alarming. The younger man bit his lips to trap any moans or grunts and deny them life as they lowered him to a nearby bench to catch his breath, while Porthos went back for the injured man's crutches.

"Perhaps you could tell us how you'd planned to get home from here?" Athos asked.

"I knew you'd find me," Aramis said with absolute certainty.

"Of all the boneheaded…" Porthos swallowed the rest of the sentence.

"Admit it, brother, you wouldn't want me any other way." The younger man's cocky reply was met with a withering gaze. "Well, perhaps you would…but we all know that's not going to happen."

"Try another idiotic stunt like this and we won't bother looking for you next time," Athos threatened. "Are we clear?"

"Crystal," Aramis said with a smug grin that told both men he wasn't buying their protests.

The older Musketeers exchanged a grin, relieved to see the younger man's sense of humour coming to the fore. Despite his attempt at nonchalance, they all knew the horrors of Savoy would forever linger in Aramis' mind, waiting for a chance to strike. But they, too, would be waiting, with whatever support he needed to prevail.

Handing Aramis his crutches, they lifted him to his feet; walking either side of him as they made their way slowly to the parking lot. The marksman stopped for a moment, glancing back at the graves of his friends. He took a deep breath and acknowledged the step he'd taken today - he still had quite a distance to travel to leave his perdition behind but he knew, without doubt, his brothers would be by his side every step of the way.

**-o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o-**

It was mid-afternoon when d'Artagnan's fever broke and, though his temperature was still on the high side, Lemay had decided that the younger man was doing well enough to be moved from the high dependency ward into a private room.

Having no family of his own, the young Gascon had expected to wake alone in his room. He was a little overwhelmed and deeply touched to find Athos and Constance sitting by his bed when he woke.

Strong pain medication had clouded his brain in a thick fog and he was struggling to follow the polite conversation going on around him.

"You need your rest," Athos said, noticing the younger man was struggling to keep his eyes open. "Would you like us to leave?"

"No!" d'Artagnan said, a little too quickly. "Please, stay."

"Clear a path," Porthos' voice called from the corridor. "Invalid comin' through."

D'Artagnan's face lit up at his friends' arrival. Sitting regally in a wheelchair, Aramis' left leg was elevated to keep the pressure off his wounded thigh. The marksman grimaced as his larger friend manoeuvred the wheelchair into the doorframe before successfully entering the room.

"There you are," Constance said, leaning in to give Aramis a quick peck on the cheek. "We've been wondering what was keeping you."

"Lemay wanted to run some tests before he released 'im." Porthos said with a chuckle.

"I assure you, he made up some of those tests to punish me for signing out AMA," Aramis replied, before stage whispering, "he's a little pissed."

"Then perhaps you'll do as you're told next time instead of disappearing without a word to anyone," Constance scolded lightly.

"Tell me, Madame, where would be the fun in that?"

"I assume the good doctor has officially released you?" Athos said.

"As a matter of fact, I have now been released on my own recognizance," Aramis replied, causing Porthos to cough loudly. "Or, rather, I've been released on Porthos' recognizance."

"The doc put me in charge so no funny business, yeah?" the larger man told him.

The marksman placed his hands over his heart.

"Porthos, you wound me," he said with feigned offence.

"And the wheels?" Athos asked.

"Just until he's off the pain meds," Porthos explained. "You know 'ow he gets…one pain killer and 'e's got the coordination of a newborn colt."

Aramis met d'Artagnan's gaze for the first time since they left the cabin and he smiled with genuine happiness.

"It is good to see you, my friend," he told the younger man. "I'm told Lemay has predicted a full recovery."

"Thanks to you," d'Artagnan replied, his eyes dropping to his hands before finding Aramis' again. "Aramis…about your leg…I'm so sorry."

"You apologized before…twice, I believe…and each time it was duly accepted."

"Still, if it wasn't for me, this-"

Aramis cut him off with a wave of his hand.

"If it wasn't for you, I would be dead," Aramis told him. "A wise man once told me that the past deserves to be studied and remembered but living needs to be done in the present."

"Well, you're both here now and that's all that matters," Constance said, producing a bottle and some plastic cups. "And we're celebrating the end of d'Artagnan's probationary period."

Athos reached for the bottle and examined the label.

"Sparkling cider," he drawled. "I see we've spared no expense."

Constance playfully slapped the lead agent's arm.

"You know d'Artagnan and Aramis are on pain killers. Stop your moaning and help me pour the drinks."

Waiting until everyone had a cup, Athos raised his cider in a toast.

"To the newest member of Alpha One," he said. "And then there were four."

D'Artagnan quickly blinked the excess moisture from his eyes as a strong sense of gratitude overwhelmed him. These people, with their quirky idiosyncrasies and humour, had welcomed him into their lives, sharing their friendship, their staunch loyalty and their strong sense of family.

"We should have a real celebration," Aramis said. "I distinctly remember Porthos offering to pick up the cheque the next time we went out."

"Oy, that was only d'Artagnan and me, not the lot of you," Porthos blustered.

"Where we go one, we go all," Athos added dryly.

"Not so fast you lot," Constance said. "Some of you have still got some healing to do."

"Nonsense," Aramis replied. "We'll be back to active duty before you know it."

"The doc's got you on the sticks for at least four weeks," Porthos remarked.

The marksman eyes lit up at the challenge.

"Ten euro says I'm off them in two."

"You'll do as you're told and follow the doctor's instructions," Athos told him.

"But I hate light duties, it's boring. I miss active duty – the excitement, the noise…the danger."

"It's only been a day," Porthos chuckled. "Besides, this time you'll 'ave d'Artagnan to keep you company."

"That's true," Aramis brightened.

Athos looked at his newest agent.

"A word of warning; Aramis is a master of having the newer agents complete his paperwork."

"Not to mention, 'is fetching and carrying," Porthos added. "He 'ad Bonnett runnin' all over Paris doing 'is personal errands."

"I consider it my duty to teach those less experienced, the importance of following orders," Aramis said.

"You mean your breakfast order, lunch order…"

"Orders are orders, are they not?" Aramis said. "Besides, it helps break the monotony."

They heard a small gasp as Constance checked her watch.

"Oh my, is that the time? I'm having dinner with some girlfriends and I completely lost track of the time."

D'Artagnan tried to hide his disappointment as he watched the young woman reach for her purse.

"I'll see you in the morning," she told him.

"You don't have to," he said with a forlorn sigh. "I mean, I know it's your job to look in on me but I'm fine. You don't need to bother."

Constance reached across and gently squeezed the young man's fingers.

"I'm not working tomorrow," she smiled. "And, I'd really like to spend the day with you."

Lost for words, d'Artagnan just stared as the young woman gathered her things and left for her appointment. She smiled as she passed Treville who was standing unnoticed in the doorway, watching the interaction of his agents.

The room fell strangely quiet until Aramis broke the silence.

"I'm telling you, Porthos, acquiring appendicitis to woo the affections of a beautiful woman is nothing short of genius," he said. "Although, it must be said, sacrificing an organ does seem a tad extreme, wouldn't you agree?"

"I would," the larger man nodded. "And what about that "deer in the 'eadlights" reaction we just saw? Worked like a charm. Constance never knew what 'it her."

D'Artagnan huffed a laugh, then grimace as it aggravated his incision. Exchanging a glance with Athos, he shrugged, and sunk back against his pillows, grinning in contentment as Aramis and Porthos continued their banter under the lead agent's watchful eye.

Treville's lips formed a smile. In his many years as a soldier he'd known and experienced the loyalty and friendships formed between comrades in arms. In their line of work, the stress they faced either tore people apart or united them together for life.

Athos, Porthos and Aramis shared one of the strongest bonds that Treville had ever seen. But d'Artagnan's arrival had brought a new fibre to their thread of trust; strengthening that bond and drawing him further into the safe harbour they were so freely offering.

Each member of Alpha One was an integral part of the whole - far greater than the individual. Their mutual bond was forged by shared conflicts and strengthened by adversity…it made them more than just friends, it made them brothers.

**-o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o-**

**THE END**

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N Thank you, so much, for your wonderful support. This was so much fun to write. I have a few more story ideas and I'm thinking of, perhaps, making it into a series but I'm not quite sure. I'd love to hear your thoughts. Gabby


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